Locum Ignotum
by Mattwho81
Summary: When the Noctis Aeterna sweeps across the Imperium the Storm Heralds find themselves carried off to a strange land. Faced with being lost for eternity can they cope with the stresses that threaten to tear them apart? This story is a sequel to my previous story Venenum Filios
1. Chapter 1

**Storm Heralds Reading list:**

 **Book1** Maledicti Venator, Serrati Stellas, Tenebris Resurget, Finis Fide, In Tergum Cultro, Omni Honore, Carpe Posterum, Vacuus Cymba, Noctem Oritur.

 **Book2** Umbram Ignis, Ancra Mortis, Fame Cimex, Crux Lapis, Saeva Abyssi.

 **Book3** Captum Ante, Venenum Filios.

 **Locum Ignotum Chapter 1**

 **999.M41**

The bridge rang with the screams of mortal men, the cries and prayers of the fearful and desperate. Everywhere souls cried out in terror, pleading for salvation, for divine intervention but there was no response. Panic and terror swept through all, taking the hearts of men and making them its own.

The source of this calamity was the ship itself, for it was screaming. Bulkheads shrieked as they were bent to the limits of tolerances and servitors chattered in a dull, repetitive litany of woe. The deck heaved with repeated constant motion, rocking it back and forth like it was in a fierce storm. Stone gargoyles fell from the high rafters above; shattering on the deck and making men cower in fear. Across the long naves of the bridge warning claxons rang over and over, pronouncing an imminent Warp breach and calling upon all men to commend their souls to the Emperor. Here and there consoles blew out as feedback overloaded them. Fires arose among the stacked pews, catching on blue tunics and setting men alight as living, screaming candles. This was the Thunderchild, a warship the Storm Herald's Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes. This was a proud chariot of war, a valiant and brave ship once held to be lucky by its crew and this was the sound it made as it died.

Yet among that teeming throng of bewildered men stood a pillar of certitude, a lighthouse in a sea of desperation. Clad in blue ceramite and towering over the mortal serfs who were supposed to be managing the Enginarium station. His name was Bylan, the standard bearer of the Third Company, and he was frantically trying to restore some order to the panicked masses. Bylan saw the men running about mindlessly as the ship bucked hard in the Warp's tides and he shouted, "+Stay at your posts!+" His voice was a harsh augmetic rasp, the result of terrible injuries he had sustained as a scout-novice. It was a grinding snarl of mechanical tones but it had no effect on the panicked men.

They sobbed and tried to run, terror of the Warp's embrace rendering them useless. Bylan knew he had to intervene and grabbed a man by the tunic growling, "+Cease your prattling, get back to your post+"

"We're going to die," the man wept, "The Warp will eat our souls!"

Bylan was normally a humble and positive soul but he hadn't made it be a Space Marine without steel and fire too. He leaned in and snarled, "+You shouldn't be afraid of what outside the ship, be afraid of what's in here already+"

The man gulped and nodded and sat back down at his console, trying to restore some semblance of order. Bylan saw the rest of the serfs were on the edge of panic and called, "+Be steadfast men of the Imperium, we are not dead yet. Look to the Captain, he still holds true, trust in him to see us through+"

Eyes slid over to the command dais, where Captain Toran was standing. He cut a dashing figure with his red cloak and augmetic right eye, the double-headed eagle of his Iron Halo framing his short dark hair. The glorious relic blade on his hip was a sight to stir hearts to feats of valour and confidence shone off him like a star. Bylan had more reason than most to idolise the Captain, he had been the one responsible for giving Bylan the augmetic lungs and a second chance to become an Astartes. Bylan held the Captain to be an exemplar of the best virtues of the Storm Heralds; in fact he had been embarrassingly devoted at first. Thankfully time had worn down his rough edges a little but he would still follow that Marine anywhere.

"Stand fast men, the Emperor guides us still, he trusts you to get this ship back under control!" Captain Toran was calling, "Furion tell me what's going on out there."

At the helm Brother Furion was stood, wearing his Mark III armour, he was a giant Marine and a pillar of certainty and integrity. He called out, "We're caught in a Warp Squall, the Thunderchild can't break free!"

From the Ordnance pulpit the Novak, the impudent Company Champion called out, "Can we make an emergency real-space translation?"

From the sensorium Brother Persion, their communication specialist cried, "Negative, we have no Warp-Materium interfaces anywhere nearby. We won't survive the translation without one."

From the weapon pews the bloodthirsty Brother Jediah swore, "Warp hells… literally!"

Captain Toran overrode the looming panic, shouting, "Bylan, raise the Navigator, tell him to get us out of here!"

Bylan hastened to obey, connecting his vox to the distant armoured bubble where the Navigator lay in his trance. The mutant was the product of ancient science, genetically designed to be able to see the Warp's tides and (thanks to the Emperor's great psychic Astronomicon), steer a safe course through them. This was the only way the Imperium of Man could navigate the malevolent, extra-dimensional realm of insanity it dubbed the Warp.

Bylan contacted the Navigator's bubble but all he could hear was screaming. He barked, "+Report, tell me whats happening+"

A man's voice came back, one of the Navigator's attendees, saying, "It's gone, the navigator, he's screaming that the Astronomicon is gone!"

Bylan's hearts leapt up into his mouth and he stammered, "+He's… he's lost sight of the Astronomicon?+"

"No, it's gone," screamed the man, "The Astronomicon has gone out, it's been completely extinguished!"

Bylan's jaw dropped and he couldn't believe it, the Astronomicon was the Emperor's guiding light, the beacon that had sustained humanity for ten thousand years. It was bound to His immortal life force, if it had guttered out then that could well mean the end of everything. Bylan instantly realised that this news would shatter whatever spirit the crew had left, he couldn't let this get out.

Thankfully at that moment a scuffle at the hatch drew eyes away, seeing three new figures entering the bridge. They rode the bucking deck with expert grace, not troubled at all by its heaving swells. The first was the black-clad visage of Chaplain Wrethan, his skull mask projecting a terrifying aura. The second bore the white armour of the Apothecarion; it was Memnos a sage and unflappable healer. The third was new to this company, a young Librarian named Arvael on his first campaign. He boasted strange armour, festooned with eldritch marks and many scrolls hung from his belt. His head was framed by a Psychic hood and one shoulder pad was the image of a horned skull, bisected by a plunging knife. His face was youthful in form yet bore an aged expression, like he had seen too much and been forced into grim, hard decisions.

The trio marched up to the dais and Wrethan shouted, "What's going on?!"

Toran called back, "We're caught in a Warp squall!"

Arvael spoke up, "This is no mere Warp Storm, the Ether screams with change. I can see it cracking apart, spilling into real-space; it is growing even as we speak. The dark powers howl their triumph for all to hear, their victory is at hand. Rifts are forming everywhere, across every Segmentum all in the same second. The galaxy splits apart and nothing will ever be the same!"

Cried and wails of dread greeted that pronouncement, the serf's hearts breaking at the dire news. Chaplain Wrethan heard their distress and stomped forward and raised his voice loudly, shouting, "Hear me, sons of the Imperium. Darkness looms and death calls but that is nothing new to us. For ten thousand years the Warp had thrown everything it has at us, all the misery and horror it can conceive. But despite all that, despite all the woe and death, humanity is still here! The human spirit is greater than anything the Warp can conjurer up, it has never broken and it will not break now. Stand to your duties and be stout of heart, we shall yet triumph over this!"

Ragged cheers arose and men sat back down at their consoles, doing their best to ignore the shivering tremors running through the deck. Bylan breathed a sigh of relief and he heard Memnos turn to Arvael and say, "I know you're new here but around the rank and file, keep news like that to yourself."

Bylan was suddenly distracted by a serf who was shouting into a vox horn, he bent down and said, "+What now?+"

The serf replied, "Honourable Ajax is on the vox, he demands to know what we're playing at up here."

Bylan had no time to deal with an upset Dreadnought and said, "+Tell him the situation is in hand, we are dealing with it+"

The serf's face at the prospect of telling that to the oldest living Storm Herald but at that moment the ship bucked hard. The deck reared beneath them and men spilled out of their posts as the artificial gravity tilted forty-five degrees. The whole length of the Thunderchild shrieked as the ship was wracked by surging Warp tides and Machine Spirits wailed in Binaric at the harsh treatment.

Apothecary Memnos held onto a console and yelled, "We can't take another one like that!"

Bylan knew it was true and heard Toran shout, "We'll have to risk an emergency translation."

Persion called out, "We won't survive translation in these conditions."

"We're out of options," Toran snarled, "Ready the drives, prepare to…"

"Wait!" Arvael suddenly shouted, "There's a calm spot off the port bow, I can see a dead zone in the tides."

Eyes narrowed at that the Librarian's pronouncement, everybody wondering if they could trust the word of a Psyker but Toran reacted instantly shouting, "Hard-a-port, bring us about!"

The Thunderchild heaved about, moving in the thrashing insanity of the Warp. There was no such thing as true direction here but still she moved, seeking the calm area. Inside her bridge Bylan clung on for dear life as the ship vibrated hard and the thrashing grew worse and worse. It seemed like the whole ship would break apart from the violence and that death breathed down their necks. Suddenly there was an almighty crash and the whole ship rung like a bell. A searing bright light emerged from nowhere and illuminated every rivet and joint in the hull, making everybody squint. There was the strangest sensation of being squeezed and flung down an infinite well simultaneously and reality itself seemed to blink. It was unlike anything Bylan had ever felt before, not even teleportation was this strange.

Suddenly silence fell and the ship went utterly still making everybody blinked in confusion. Persion looked about called out, "Did we translate?"

"Maybe," Toran replied, "Perhaps we ran into a bail-shaft and got spat out of the warp."

However Arvael declared, "No, we are not in real space, but we are not in the warp either."

Apothecary Memnos scowled and asked, "How is that possible?"

Arvael declared, "The universe hides many secrets, many concealed places. I think we've just stumbled upon one."

Persion was peering at a surveyor screen and said, "Captain, auspex can't pick up anything out there, nothing at all."

Bylan queried, "+You're saying there are no planets ?+"

"I'm saying there's no universe out there," Persion replied, "No gravity waves, no solar winds, no background radiation. Even the chronometers have stopped."

Bylan saw Arvael close his eyes for a moment and a shiver ran down his spine as he wondered what the Psyker was doing. Then the Librarian opened his eyes and said, "Captain, I suggest you open the Occulus."

Toran looked puzzled but relayed the order then the great armoured louvres at the far end of the bridge ran back. Bylan craned his neck to see out but was shocked by what he saw. Beyond the armourglass space was twisted and bent, curved into strange arcs that ran away before the Thunderchild's prow.

It resembled an immense tunnel, one whose walls glowed slightly with a faint golden light. The tunnel bulged and shrank in strange ways, without rhyme or reason, creating a bewildering vision of an organic structure. There was not a straight line to be seen anywhere and nothing was symmetrical or regular. It looked almost like it had been grown or was a natural feature rather than anything manufactured or artificial. It was mesmerising and hypnotic in its swells, drawing the eye off into infinity.

Bylan couldn't believe his eyes and said, "+Where are we?+"

Arvael spoke up to say, "We are between the Materium and the Warp, caught in a veil laid between the two. A hyperdimensional construct of non-Euclidian geometries. We are quite literally nowhere."


	2. Chapter 2

**Locum Ignotum Chapter 2**

Golden light washed over the bridge, pouring in through the open oculus. It filled the space with a warm radiance, an uplifting sensation of peace and well-being. The light soothed aching hearts and stilled panic, washing away the distress and fear of the mortal serfs. Men went about their duties placidly, as if nothing had ever been wrong and never would again.

Bylan found it strange, only a couple of hours earlier these men had been expecting to die but now they seemed almost happy. It was the light he concluded, there was something more to it, it was affecting people. Thankfully his Hypno-indoctrination seemed enough to ward off the effect, but for the ninth time that hour, he checked that the Gellar field was still activated. All seemed to be in order and he looked up again seeing the view slide by.

The auspex was still picking up absolutely nothing so the only way they could steer was to look with their own eyes. The Navigator had gone silent, refusing all entreaties and pleas for answers. Bylan was most disturbed by that, the last words about the Astronomicon going out still ringing in his ears. He would report that later but right now they needed to focus on their current situation. The Thunderchild was sliding along the strange tunnel, following its course. They had elected to carry on down its odd length at a slow speed; it wasn't like they had many other choices. The walls undulated as they drifted past, shrinking and growing at random. At times it looked like the passage might grow too small for the vast Capital ship but somehow it always slipped past without incident.

Bylan realised he was staring again and returned to his duties, checking the reactor output was nominal. All was well and he looked about, ensuring that the rest of the bridge was in order. Everybody was at their posts, save Captain Toran. He had left Chaplain Wrethan in command as he went below to brief Third Company. He also had to go speak with Honourable Ajax, no matter how busy one was, when a Dreadnought demanded an audience one made the time.

Bylan was distracted by the sound of boots approaching, he glanced back and saw Librarian Arvael drifting closer. He was a strange sight, not just because of his arcane paraphernalia. Arvael had been a scout with Third Company a few years ago, before setting off for his tutelage in the Librarian's order. The years had aged him, far more than they should have and his bearing spoke of being privilege to terrible knowledge. One couldn't believe he was scarcely out of the Scouts, for he looked weathered and hardened. Bylan didn't know what had happened to him in the Librarian's tower and he was absolutely certain that he didn't want to know.

Arvael drifted up to the Enginarium pit and asked casually, "How is the ship?"

Bylan glanced at the serfs then stepped closer saying, "+The Machine Spirits are content, it's the mortals that concern me, this place is affecting them+"

"I know," Arvael said, "There is power out there but not hostile, not malevolent. The Warp is utterly inimical to all that is good and pure but this is the complete opposite. The material of the walls seem to be generating some form of psychic sheath, an energy field to protect and conceal this place from the hostility of the Warp."

Despite the arcane talk, Bylan was curious and he said, "+Do you know that this place is?+"

Arvael looked thoughtful and said, "I have several theories, it seems to resemble Eldar constructs but there are numerous differences. I have read that the Eldar use a series of Warp-tunnels for interstellar flight, but they always open to real-space, we entered from the Immaterium which as far as I know should be impossible. My hypothesis is that we may have stumbled into some long-lost construct of theirs, forgotten in the collapse of their degenerate Empire. We may be the first living things to pass this way for thousands of years."

Bylan gulped at that, not liking the implications and he asked, "+Any sign of an exit yet?+"

Arvael shook his head and said, "I have scryed ahead and found there are smaller tributaries, some barely big enough for a man to pass but they all circle back to the main route. None of them seems to lead anywhere; we seem to be in a closed loop."

Bylan was really worried now but at that moment Captain Toran re-entered the bridge, striding through the hatch with his head held high. He climbed the command dais and said, "Any change?"

Chaplain Wrethan replied, "None, we seem to be locked into this course."

Toran nodded and asked, "How far have we come?"

"Unknown," Wrethan replied, "We dropped a skull-probe as a marker beacon but the distance hasn't increased. According to its signal, we aren't moving."

Toran glanced at the walls which were sliding by and said, "That is impossible."

From the Ordnance pulpit Novak called, "That makes it the fifth impossible thing we've seen today, I've started a list."

Toran rolled his organic eye and said, "Have we tried increasing speed?"

Wrethan nodded and answered, "Sped up and slowed down, didn't make a mote of difference. Our velocity seems fixed no matter how much thrust we apply."

"Impossibility number six," stated Novak.

Bylan suddenly spied a flashing light and saw a pair of Serfs hurriedly tending to the consoles. He bent over their heads and assessed the readings, then called, "+Captain, we're picking up a vox signal from dead ahead. It's a repeated pattern in an ancient Imperial code… it looks like a distress beacon+"

Toran looked over and said, "Imperial, how can that be?"

Arvael said, "It defies belief that another ship wandered in here at the same time."

Novak sighed, "That makes seven impossibilities."

Bylan fixed his eyes on the Oculus and waited long minutes as the ship drifted along. The time seemed to stretch out then suddenly Persion called from the Sensorium, "Contact! We have a return on the Auspex, it's getting a clear reading from ahead."

"What is it," Toran called, "A ship? A station?"

"This can't be right," Persion said looking confused, "We are detecting an atmosphere. The Machine Spirits are reading oxygen, nitrogen, median temperatures and wind currents."

Bylan frowned and said, "+A whole planet, in here?+"

Persion shook his head and said, "No, not a planet. A landscape, we're reading geography ahead."

"Do not be foolish," Wrethan declared, "That is ridiculous."

Novak muttered, "Impossibility number eight."

Bylan was peering ahead and he saw the tunnel suddenly widen up before them. The light changed from golden to a beautiful blue flecked with clouds. It resembled a fine sky on a beautiful day, a perfect image of tranquility. The blue concealed the contours of the tunnel but they were just visible if one focussed, creating a vast dome overhead. All that was missing was a sun but the horizon was lit by a golden aura, creating the impression of rich warmth. Below them, just visible around the bulk of the Thunderchild's prow was a rich green carpet, a landscape spread out before them. It extended outwards, running away in all directions. Bylan could see forests and rivers down there, rolling hills and snow-capped mountains. There were wide grasslands and small seas, ringed by sandy beaches. Impossibly it looked as if the Thunderchild was hanging a few miles over the surface of a green and pleasant world.

Everybody gaped and Bylan said, "+How is this possible?+"

Arvael was equally wide-eyed and said, "I have no theories, none at all."

Toran blinked and snapped, "Don't stand there gawping, get me some answers. What are we seeing, is there a threat here, give me facts to work with."

Everybody snapped back to their duties and Persion said, "Nothing capable of threatening the ship but auspex is reading a landscape, the Machine Spirits calculate that it is over twenty-five million square miles in size. Air is breathable, temperatures acceptable for life, there's water and plants down there too."

Bylan peered at a reading and said, "+We're inside a gravity field, 1.03G, it's holding everything down+"

"What?!" Wrethan barked, "Our anti-gravs aren't engaged, we should be crashing down in a flaming wreck!"

Bylan shook his head and said, "+I can't explain it, there's definitely gravity down there but it's not affecting us up here+"

Persion glanced at Novak and said, "How many impossible things is that now?"

Novak replied dumbfounded, "I've lost count."

Toran blinked and said, "Facts people, stick to the facts. Are we still picking up that distress beacon?"

Bylan checked and said, "+Yes, it's coming from seventy-five degrees off the starboard bow+"

Toran nodded and said, "Take us to it; it's the only lead we have."

Slowly the Thunderchild came about and passed over the impossible country, the land sliding by far below. Bylan was amazed at this, by the way that the physical laws were being defied before his eyes. Persion was observing everything in the auspex and called, "I'm seeing infrastructure, down there. Roads, farms, bridges, some odd towers and even a town. They scan as primitive but look human-scaled."

"There are people down there?" Wrethan said, "We should send down a gunship to investigate."

"One mystery at a time," Toran answered, "Let us concentrate on finding the source of that signal."

Bylan looked at Arvael and said, "+If there are people here does that mean there's another way in and out ?+"

Arvael looked grim and said, "Not necessarily, it may well mean they got pulled in like we did… and couldn't get out again."

Bylan gulped but Persion called, "There it is, it's in visual range."

Bylan looked out and saw a strange sight, even by the standards of this impossible place. Dead ahead was a vast crater, a yawning pit several miles wide. It dropped away into darkness, a pit of blackness in this sunny world. Around that pit were a dozen black towers, each one thick and broad. They seemed to be made from some dense stone-like material and looked like elongated pyramids, each one a mile high. At the top of one was a small craft resting idly in a docking position, sitting impossibly in the clear air.

Persion checked the Sensorium and said, "That's the source of the signal, it's an Imperial craft. No registration but it reads as a Hermes class fast-clipper."

"Hermes class," Wrethan said, "They haven't made those in ten millennia, that ship is ancient."

Bylan felt a shiver at the implications of that at that moment but felt a tremor run through the deck. He checked the Enginarium displays and called, "+Captain, we've been snagged by a grav-beam, it's drawing us down to one of the towers. We're being brought in gently; it looks like some form of automated docking assist+"

"Don't fight it," Toran said, "We have no idea what we're dealing with."

Sure enough the Thunderchild was brought down until it hung over the dark pit; slowly it drifted closer to an empty tower and then gently bumped its flank up against it. Stillness settled and Bylan reported, "+We have a hard seal on one of the port flank airlocks, we appear to have docked+"

Toran declared, "Time to get some answers, everybody with me, we are going to go investigate this."

Bylan leapt to follow but before they could leave Chaplain Wrethan barred Toran's path. He looked at him and said, "Captain, that is not fitting, you should remain with the ship."

Toran scowled and said, "I will not ask any man to undertake any task I would not perform myself."

"Very noble but inappropriate," Wrethan replied, "This is simple recon; you need to remain with the Company. A Captain should trust his men to know what they are doing; trying to do everything yourself strays into micromanaging."

Toran grimaced and Bylan knew his struggle, it was hard to send another to fight in one's place and the Captain did love to lead from the front. It was very admirable but not always suitable and Toran knew it. Finally Toran swallowed and said, "Very well, Father Wrethan you shall lead the recon. Get us some answers, find out what this place is, who built it, who sent the signal and most importantly how we get out of here."

Wrethan nodded and said, "Persion, Jediah, Novak, Furion, Bylan and Arvael you are with me. Let's go find out what the hell's going on around here."


	3. Chapter 3

**Locum Ignotum Chapter 3**

Wan light filled the tower, a diffuse glow that cast no shadows. It came from everywhere, seemingly without needing any devices or energy to produce it. The illumination carried an impression of eternity within it, like light itself could be old and tired. Stars would blink out, the galaxy fall into dust and this light would still be here, waiting and eternally patient.

Bylan thought upon this as he prowled ahead, searching the interior of the docking tower. The interior space was large and empty, seemingly without any mechanisms at all. It was divided into numerous levels, separated by ramps, wide enough for fifty people to walk down at once. Each level had numerous rooms and winding corridors but the way down seemed to follow a simple spiral pattern. The Space Marines had proceeded at a brisk pace, searching a level then moving on. They had been at this for three hours and had only covered a dozen levels so far but they had found no opposition and no clues. Above them the Thunderchild waited, sitting impossibly in mid-air. The Company was ready and primed but they would not move until a recon sweep had been conducted. The Codex Astartes had much to say on the subject of rushing in heedlessly without gathering intelligence first.

Bylan tensed as he approached a doorway, gripping his bolter tightly. Officially he was the Company Standard Bearer, a duty he took most seriously but this was hardly the place for a large banner. Today he would fight with bolter and combat blade, if there was an enemy to fight. Bylan was eager for a foe to slay, not least because his meagre kill tally was woefully short. Bylan would never gripe about it but the Company Standard was unbelievably cumbersome, a great lop-sided weight that was next to impossible to wield effectively. He was most often forced to fight defensively and forgo the opportunity to claim personal glory. His role was not to be some valiant hero, his calling was to inspire the rest of his Brothers to feats of valour.

Captain Toran had given Bylan the Company's past glory and future triumphs as a sacred trust and he had sworn never to let it fall. It was a duty that called for humility and selflessness and one he held to be the greatest achievement of his life. Still he was Astartes, so when the chance came for a genuine fight he was eager to engage. Bylan peered around the corner and saw only another empty room, one more deserted chamber.

He sighed and looked about, seeing the rest of the recon party sweeping the area. Chaplain Wrethan looked stern in his skull-mask, his Crozius Arcanum held ready for action. Sergeant Furion was following him, the giant marine keeping his Bolter ready. Brothers Persion and Jediah were covering each other, Friction axe and Fractal-edged short sword held tightly.

Behind them Novak the Company Champion was inspecting another room, his power sword and combat shield held high. He was without his usual impudent manner, totally focussed on the duty before him. Novak was the finest sword in the Company, a prodigy with a blade and his face bore the mottled scars to prove he had earned his title.

Last of all was Librarian Arvael who seemed to be inspecting the walls, a Force-Morningstar held loosely in his grip. He was a strange one, as all Librarians are, but he seemed fascinated by the structure of this tower. Bylan strode over to him and said, "+Have you found something?+"

Arvael was staring at an odd angular glyph carved into a wall and replied, "It's more what I haven't found. I presumed this place had some connection to the Eldar but this rock is unlike anything they use. They favour Wraithbone as a foundation for their technology but this is totally different. It is old, older even than them; I think this place may predate the Eldar race entirely."

Bylan didn't follow that and asked, "+What difference does that make?+"

Arvael laid a finger on the glyph and said, "There is power here, vast energy, but it's not familiar at all. The Warp is typically malevolent, actively hostile but this power is placid and calm. Empathic rather than Psychic, as we understand the term. Somehow this place is taming the Warp's energy and creating a safe haven, like a harbour's wall keeping out the ocean's waves."

Bylan felt a shudder at the pronouncement; he didn't like talk of Warpcraft and suddenly wished that he hadn't asked at all. Thankfully he was saved by the voice of Chaplain Wrethan calling, "This floor is clear, we are moving on."

The pair hurried up as the group descended the next ramp. At the bottom they found a clear space exactly like above and they swept it with their bolters. Wrethan ordered, "Sweep and clear, look for the next way down and…"

He paused as he saw Brother Jediah had frozen, standing utterly still. Everybody glanced at him curiously and Jediah stated, "We're being hunted."

Everybody snapped to attention their already keen senses stretched to the maximum. Bylan swept the area again but found nothing, yet he didn't doubt Jediah. He may be a bloodthirsty psychopath but he was also the keenest hunter of them all, if Jediah said there was an enemy out there Bylan believed him.

Wrethan made a gesture and the group split up by pairs, slinking away to sweep the area. Bylan found himself paired up with Arvael and they moved left to check a suite of chambers. They moved expertly, covering each other's backs and checking every nook and cranny. Bylan could see no danger but the sense of threat was growing and he was sure that something was nearby.

They closed upon a doorway and paused, then pounced in sweeping for a foe. Inside they found nothing but a dead end, blank walls with no other exit. Bylan sighed and looked at Arvael who cocked his head in disappointment. Bylan gathered himself and they stepped back, looking for another room. The suite was exactly as they had left it but then Arvael's eyes flickered with a flash of power and he cried, "It's a trap!"

Suddenly a grey blur dropped down from above the door's lintel. It crashed into the pair of them, knocking them aside. Bylan staggered, seeing a vague impression of fur and metal but before he could focus something hard came right at him and smashed him in the helm. Bylan had never been hit so hard and he fell down, stars flashing before his eyes. He heard the sound of a brief struggle and then the crash of a ceramite body hitting the blank stone. He blinked his eyes as he recovered and leapt to his feet but another blow smashed into his faceplate, knocking him back. He staggered and in that instant sensed rough hands grabbing at his pauldrons. He was spun about and thrown against a wall then his autosenses detected the unmistakable sensation of a gun barrel being pressing into his head.

"You struggle, you die," a guttural voice growled in his ear and then he was hauled away, pushed before his attacker as a living shield. Bylan was forced to march out into the central area, his opponent right behind him. He couldn't look back but felt that the foe was as large and broad as he and caught a glimpse of gunmetal coloured ceramite in the corner of his eye.

They marched out only to be greeted by a ring of raised bolters held in the hands of Wrethan, Persion, Furion and Novak. Wrethan had his bolt pistol raised and shouted, "Halt and identify!"

A voice growled from behind Bylan's ear, thick with a strange accent, "You be in my hall, tell me your name first."

Wrethan snarled, "We have you outnumbered."

"Doesn't matter," the voice growled, "I'll still gut you all and leave your bodies to lie upon red snow."

Wrethan barked furiously, "Stand down or you will die."

The voice hissed, "I would rather die on my feet than on my knees."

Wrethan stepped forward and roared, "Last warning, stand down!"

The voice spat, "One more step and I'll blow this one's brains out!"

"Really?" said a new voice from behind them, "How are you going to do that with an empty bolter?"

Bylan realised it was Jediah's voice and he was right behind the attacker, his pistol just visible in his eye-line. There was a moment's pause and then the voice rang, "Ha! You are very good to notice that. Very well, it will be as you wish."

Bylan felt a shove and he staggered forward, turning to see his attacker. The sight was most surprising, he beheld an Astartes warrior in unpainted ceramite armour with no helm. It was an ancient model, Mark II, a design long since superseded. The warrior was bereft of insignia or iconography, save for a thick pelt over his shoulders and a heavy axe hung at his belt, worked with a beautiful runic script.

His face could have been carved from granite; it was pitted and aged to an extent Bylan had never seen before. His head was bald but twin plaits hung from his chin as a beard and his mouth was filled with two huge fangs that jutted out from under his lip, making him look like a beast. The warrior glanced back at Jediah, who was stood behind him and said, "You are good, you would find a warm hearth amongst the ranks of the Vanir."

Jediah gestured with his bolt pistol and said, "As much as I admire the gall of a man who forces a standoff armed with nothing but an empty bolter, I need your name."

The warrior smiled around his fangs and spat, "Straight to point eh, I like that, I am Ganaar. Ganaar the Wanderer."

Wrethan stamped forward and said, "I see no heraldry, who do you serve?" Ganaar's smile didn't waver but he presented his shoulder upon which flared a brief image of a stylised 'I'.

Wrethan hissed, "Inquisition."

Ganaar frowned and said, "What is Inquisition? No, I am Ganaar, Knight-Errant to Malcador the Sigillite."

Bylan had never heard of such a thing and he aasked, "+What have you done to Arvael?+"

"Ha!" Ganaar laughed, "Your wyrd sleeps, but weep not, I did not cut his thread."

Wrethan eyed him and said, "He better breathe, for your sake."

Ganaar didn't look intimidated, despite being surrounded by bolters and said, "I've told you my name and you're in my hall, it is customary to tell me yours."

Wrethan didn't lower his bolt pistol but listed their names and concluded by saying, "We are the Storm Heralds."

Ganaar cocked his head and said, "Never heard of you, but you carry the scent of Roboute Guilliman. Only his XIIIth smell so much of spit and polish."

Bylan blinked at the odd statement but said, "+Why are you here?+"

Ganaar blinked and said, "I saw your fat narwhale of a skiff docking and I knew my beacon had at last brought someone still breathing. So I thought I'd see who was coming to visit."

"You set the beacon," said Wrethan eying him, "You've been here a while then?"

"An eternity," Ganaar said his smile fading; "Many times I thought I would never see a fresh face. And yet here you are."

Jediah probed, "So, you must know what this impossible place is."

"All too well," Ganaar spat with vehemence in his tone, "The others call it a refuge, a safe haven for those lost and weary. A protected place to rest your head and refresh your soul. I however call it a prison."

"+Others?+" asked Bylan in surprise, "+There are more of you?+"

"Ja," Ganaar explained, "A few, they can explain things much better than I."

Wrethan leaned in and said, "You shall take us to them."

Ganaar glanced down and said, "Would be easier without guns pointing at me."

Wrethan paused for a moment then nodded and everybody lowered their guns but didn't holster them. Ganaar smiled once more and said, "Better, you are in no danger here, regretfully. You should come with me and talk to Baruch, he runs things around here."

Wrethan kept his pistol in hand but said, "Very well, let me summon our Captain and you shall escort us to this Baruch."

"So be it," said Ganaar, "I hope you have some mead on that narwhale, its a long way and I haven't had a drop in centuries."

Wrethan blinked and said, "No we do not. Now let me call our Captain, then you shall take us to your leader."


	4. Chapter 4

**Locum Ignotum Chapter 4**

The tower shrank behind them, becoming vague and indistinct in the distance as they marched away. At its very top the great bulk of the Thunderchild hung in mid-air, impossibly resting over the great pit. There was something profoundly disturbing about that sight, of a great Capital ship just sitting there contentedly so everybody had quickly stopped looking at it.

Away from that strange apparition they marched, in full regalia and every portion of their armour gleaming. Captain Toran had joined them for this diplomatic envoy, refusing to be left behind this time. With them came Ganaar, seemingly bemused by the time the others spent preparing for this mission. His armour was grubby and worn, flecked with mud on the greaves and he seemed to like it that way.

There was one other who had joined the party, Honourable Ajax. The Contemptor Dreadnought was stomping along, his great mechanical feet raising dry dust with every step. His presence was hardly diplomatic but he had decided that he was coming and nobody had been willing to argue. Dreadnoughts were honoured veterans, prized for their wisdom and experience. Plus when a Dreadnought decided he wanted to go somewhere, nothing stopped them.

Bylan shook his head, wondering where they were going. In his hands he bore the Company Standard, the glorious banner of Third Company emblazoned with icons of victory and valour. It flapped slightly in the breeze but he compensated for it, his Transhuman strength easily overcoming its cumbersome weight.

All around them harvests ripened in the warm golden radiance that replaced a sun, endless fields of crops tubers and fruiting orchards. It was a pleasant agrarian scene, as might be seen painted on some rural chapel's walls. It seemed incongruous for eight gene-forged warriors and a Warmachine to be walking up this dusty track, yet here they were. Bylan glanced upwards, seeing the constant blue overhead, it was nearly perfect but if he squinted he could just make out the contours of the strange tunnel walls.

It covered everything and enclosed this environment in a flattened dome. He felt almost like some specimen in a Magos Biologis' laboritorium, unaware that cold, unsympathetic eyes were upon it. He found it reassuring that the rest of Third Company was up there, flying patrol in Thunderhawks. This diplomatic envoy was made with the best of intentions but they weren't foolish enough to go without backup. If this proved to be a trap then the full might of the Third would fall from above.

Bylan stepped closer to Arvael, who was looking chagrined. His beating at the hands of their host had knocked some of the eldritch air off him, he looked humbled and for the first time Bylan could believe that he was a lot younger than the Standard Bearer was. Bylan leaned in and said, "+Dont take it so hard, we've all suffered a beating once or twice. Why the first time I went into a true fight I lost two lungs+"

Arvael shook his head and said, "It's not that, it's our host that worries me. He's been here a long time, look at the age of his armour… I don't like the connotations."

Bylan glanced over and said, "+You think he's trapped here and can't leave?+"

Arvael replied, "I think we need more information before leaping to conclusions."

They looked over at Ganaar who was marching with a jaunty tune humming through his fanged lips. He was an odd sight, seemingly cocky and insolent and yet there was pain in him, a weariness that leaked through at times.

Suddenly Ajax burst into life and he said, "YOU… YOU ARE A SPACE WOLF."

Ganaar didn't seem put out by that and answered, "Only an idiot calls the VIth Legion that, I am of the Vlka Fenryka."

Ajax sounded annoyed as he rumbled, "THE SPACE WOLVES ARE ALL KNAVES AND BRAGGARTS AND WHEN YOU RETURN TO FENRIS YOU WILL TELL BJORN THAT HE STILL OWES ME A NEW ASSAULT CANNON AFTER TANHAM'S WORLD."

Ganaar's face fell grim and he said, "Trust me, if I ever get out of here the first place I'm going is somewhere with decent Mjod."

Arvael stepped up and asked, "Can you tell us what this place is?"

Ganaar's insolent visage returned as he said, "Ask three different people and you will get seven conflicting answers. All we can say for certain is that this place was made by somebody, long ago but it was deserted when we arrived."

Bylan asked, "+So how did you come to be here?+"

"Ah, for a Skald to do the tale proper justice, my words fall short" Ganaar sighed, "What can I say, Horus' treachery was tearing the galaxy apart. Our secret band was on a mission, it doesn't matter what, when we ran into something strange. We got pulled into the tunnels and found this place, deserted and empty. We've been here ever since."

Wrethan spoke up to say, "But that was ten thousand years ago!"

"Ja," Ganaar replied, "We missed all the good stuff, Horus' thread being cut, the War of the Beast, the madness of Vandire."

Wrethan sounded suspicious as he asked, "If you've been here, how do you know about that?"

Ganaar replied with a grin, "You're not the first to come, every few decades a wreck gets pulled in by the tunnels. Broken, smashed ships, a good source of metal which is sorely lacking here but lucky to boast one or two survivors. They tell us such tales as to make us weep. The Imperium falling into superstition and ignorance and the worship of the Emperor. Mad fools, the Allfather would split their skulls for such talk, were he able."

Wrethan fell oddly silent at that, the Chaplain being a devout Emperor worshipper himself, so Bylan pressed, "+So who sowed these crops?+"

Ganaar replied, "Descendants of our mortal crew, we had a few hundred survivors with us plus the occasional waif brought in by the wrecks. There are a dozen townships now, perhaps half a million people living here."

At that Ajax rumbled, "YOU HAVE SAT ON YOUR LAURELS AND SOWN CROPS FOR TEN MILLENNIA?"

"Not I," Ganaar snarled, "I never laid down my axe, unlike the rest. I climb the highest mountains, I hunt in the woods, I walk the tunnels and I keep my axe sharp."

From the other side Jediah commented, "That sounds dull."

Ganaar nodded and said, "Ja, completely boring. Some days I wish Orks would get in here so I could have somebody to fight."

Bylan was stunned by all this and said, "+You've really been here for ten thousand years?!+"

"Time passes strangely here," Ganaar said with a distant air, "You walk in the tunnels and find years have passed in the towns. You spend a decade in the mountains and return to find mere days have passed. For us, it has been centuries, but only centuries."

Ajax rumbled, "YOU NEVER TRIED TO GET OUT?"

Ganaar scowled and said, "Everyday, every accursed day I try."

Bylan interjected, "+Well you're not us, trust Captain Toran, he will find a way+"

Ganaar fell silent and shook his head as if in disbelief but Bylan was confident that they would find a way out of here. Captain Toran had a knack of finding solutions to impossible problems, he would think of something, Bylan was sure of it. As they walked a smudge appeared on the horizon which slowly resolved into a rude town. It was small, perhaps big enough for a few thousand people. It was made of wooden buildings and had no stockade. Yet in the middle of it arose a strange menhir of black stone, with the same glyphs from the docking towers.

Arvael looked upon it and said, "There's power flowing through that, it's a relay or amplifier, projecting energy onwards."

Ganaar nodded and said, "Ja, that's what the others tell me. This is the home of Baruch and here we are."

Soon the group entered the town, passing between buildings barely as big as Ajax. They found themselves the centre of attention of various folk, stopping to stare at them. There was no fear in their eyes though, no wariness, they seemed merely curious and unconcerned by any threat of violence. There was a sharp contrast between the shining armour of the Astartes and the rustic quality of the town and Bylan thought that they stuck out like a sore thumb.

As they walked Ganaar said to Captain Toran, "Be warned, Baruch is a harsh soul, prone to irrational violence. You need to approach him right or there will be blood on the snow. Do not draw your weapons but approach him with your arms held out at your sides, palms open and facing him, like this."

Toran nodded as they approached the centre of the town. Ahead of them they saw a square, right at the base of the Menhir, where a gathering was taking place. Many people were waiting for them but standing head and shoulders over them were four Astartes, standing in woven robes, not armour. Bylan blinked as he saw that not one of them was a Space Wolf, each one being subtly different. One was pale and angular, one scarred and missing an eye and one hauntingly beautiful, the leader of the group however was utterly unique. He was giant, even in plain robes he was bigger than Furion in his plate. He was broad and heavily muscled and had skin so black it seemed to be carved from coal while his eyes glowed a dull red. His mass was immense, every inch of him seeming to fill the space and his expression would have struck terror into the hearts of mortals.

The party stopped hesitantly and then Ganaar said, "Baruch, I bring guests to your hearth."

Toran stepped forward, hands held out as Ganaar had shown him and said, "Hail, I am Captain Toran, in the name of…"

Suddenly Baruch smiled widely and leapt forward, grabbing Toran's waist in a great bear hug. The giant lifted him up off the ground and shouted, "Welcome, welcome! I am so happy to see you my new friends!"

Toran looked absolutely mortified as he was shaken back and forth in a crushing embrace and he shouted, "aaAAArgh!"

Baruch however merely gripped him tighter, red eyes twinkling in mirth as he proclaimed, "I have only good feelings for you!"

"Put me down, put me down!" Toran yelled, trying to break free.

Bylan was stunned as he watched the display but noticed out of the corner of his eye that Ganaar was doubled over in laughter and he exclaimed, "+You knew he was going to do that+"

Ganaar gasped between guffaws, "It has been dull, I need to make my own amusements."

Finally Baruch dropped Toran who looked flabbergasted and the giant declared with a wide smile, "Be welcome one and all. Embrace our safe haven, a place of rest for the weary and a balm unto the soul."

Toran was too shocked to speak, breathing hard and practically bent double but Wrethan stepped up and said, "Greetings, may I present the Storm Heralds."

Baruch bowed low and said, "I am Baruch and these fine fellows are Maxivus, Leanyr and Samandriel. Of course you have met Ganaar, who still wears his armour after all this time."

Ganaar wiped a tear from his eye replied, "I told you, I will take it off when I am dead."

Bylan sensed an old argument there but Wrethan pressed on saying, "We thank you but we were hoping that you could show us the way out of here."

Baruch raised an eyebrow and looked at Ganaar saying, "You didn't tell them?"

Ganaar replied, "They didn't believe me."

"Ah," said Baruch, "Well perhaps I should make it plain… there is no way out. Once one is here there is no way to leave."

Jaws dropped and Wrethan cried, "But we have wars to get back to!"

"War, who needs war when there is nobody to fight," Baruch proclaimed, "Here you will find no battles, no perils to threaten our tranquillity. Here you will find only harmony and accord: good friends, good food and respite."

Wrethan seemed astounded as he said, "You can't mean…"

Baruch, spread his arms wide and announced with a great smile, "Welcome to paradise."

Shocked silence spread that pronouncement, everybody contemplating a future with no war or peril. A life with no challenges, no dangers and no enemies to lay waste. An eternity of peace, plenty and prosperity for all. Long seconds passed and then a voice arose, it was Jediah and he sounded aghast as he proclaimed, "I don't like it!"


	5. Chapter 5

**Locum Ignotum Chapter 5**

Silence fell over the battlefield, deep craters smoked and flames licked at the damp grass. Everywhere Transhuman bodies lay, strewn randomly where they had fallen. Predator tanks and Rhino transports rumbled past the dead without pause, showing no concern for the fallen. Overhead Thunderhawks and Storm Talons whisked past, missile pods ready and armed.

Amid that devastation Bylan stood proudly, the Company Standard flapping magnificently in the wind. It had been a hard fight but he had acquitted himself well. The banner had not once dipped or bowed once and the sight of it had rallied his kin to glorious feats of valour. With him was the Command Squad and they were atop a small hillock, looking over the carnage and taking in the sight. Chaplain Wrethan nodded to himself and declared, "A fine victory."  
"A hard fought one," replied Captain Toran, "There was no restraint here."

"Good," said Wrethan, "The Initiates need to be reminded what it is to wage war."  
"Let's go again," Toran declared, then voxed, "Red team, blue team, all Marines are to end the exercise, victory to Red team. Now all Brothers back to start positions, we are going to do this again and this time I expect Blue team to increase their kill count."

All over the battlefield Marines and machines pulled back, separating and returning to their original positions. In the distance the looming form of Honourable Ajax stomped away, seemingly disappointed by the end of hostilities while the white dot of Apothecary Memnos went to and fro checking the wounded. The 'Dead' Marines got up to shake mud and dirt from their plate. They lifted their bolters, (loaded with paint rounds) and trudged back, grumbling all the while about it. Bylan looked over their ragged lines and saw their sloppy formation, the drooped shoulders and low heads. It was a sign of the apathy creeping into the ranks, of the lack of ardour that was tainting their hearts.

From beside him he heard Jediah growl, "It's just not the same."  
Bylan looked over and said, "+What do you mean?+"

Jediah snarled, "This is no substitute for real war, the Captain can organise as many exercises and training drill as he likes but it will never fire the heart the way true battle does."  
Bylan understood what he meant but said, "+We have to do something, two months we've been trapped here. Tempers are fraying, Brothers are growing restless, we have to keep them sharp and ready+"

"For what?" came the voice of Persion who sounded irate, "What could we possibly be preparing for? We're stuck here in this insufferable place, there's no getting out."  
Bylan protested, "+You don't know that, the Captain's ordered Arvael to look into it+"

It was true, the Librarian was conspicuously absent. The Psyker had been tasked with probing the limits of this strange land, of understanding it and finding a way out. In the meantime the Company was practising manoeuvres and battle doctrines. War machines had been brought out from the holds of the Thunderchild and manoeuvres had been rehearsed over and over, to keep their spirits vibrant and skills sharp. That was the theory at least, in reality it wasn't working. Brothers had started to squabble, fights were breaking out and their famed discipline was breaking down.

From the side Wrethan said, "An Astartes needs purpose in his life, it gives us meaning. This place is too tame, too safe. We need purpose or we will fall apart."  
Jediah eyed the distant mountains, whose snow-capped peaks glistened in the eternal golden radiance and he said, "Maybe we should follow Ganaar."

Bylan thought upon it, the Space Wolf had been an infrequent sight, coming and going as he pleased. He would disappear for weeks at a time then emerge nonchalantly as if he had never been away. Bylan couldn't keep track of his movements and had quickly learned to accept it. Jediah however seemed to stalk his movements like a hawk, though whether it was to join Ganaar or fight him none could say.

Toran spoke up to say, "Jediah, Furion, Novak go get the squads sorted out, they're taking too long."  
Jediah sneered at that but Toran was firm in his gaze and eventually he relented and stomped away, resentment glowering off him as he muttered, "I hate this place."

Bylan watched him go and said, "+Jediah worries me, his temper is fraying+"  
Persion commented, "I always wondered what would happen if he didn't get to kill something on a regular basis."  
"Enough," Wrethan growled, "Jediah is my concern, I will keep an eye on him. Concentrate on your duties."  
"Indeed," Toran said, "While we wait let us go speak to our hosts."

Bylan glanced over a remote hillock where a large crowd had gathered, common folk sitting around watching the events. They had brought food and drink, small children and few musicians to drown out the loudest explosions. They were treating this whole thing like some summer gala, like an amusement for their entertainment. Not one of them seemed concerned by the notion that a stray bolt round or missile could obliterate them in an instant.

To be fair the Storm Heralds were Astartes, the idea of them striking so far off target was laughable. But still the cavalier attitude was unsettling, it was like these people had been safe for so long that they had forgotten what it was to be in danger.

As the command Squad set off Bylan looked all around and said, "+This would be perfect Titan country+"  
Persion shook his head and said, "Still on about that?"

Bylan sighed, "+I have always wanted to see one, I still haven't given up hope yet+"  
"Hope is for fools and dreamers," Wrethan's voice snarled, "We deal with what is in front of us and do whatever is required."

Persion changed tack and said, "So any more takers for the wager?"  
"+Wager?+" asked Bylan.

"On who our hosts are," Persion explained, "I'm starting a pool on what bloodline our hosts claim to be."  
"+Well Baruch's obviously a Salamander+" Bylan said, "+Ganaar we already know, the rest I couldn't say+"

Persion nodded and said, "They're cagey about it, none of them wants to admit it. They say it's not important , but I'm determined to find out."  
Toran inquired, "What're the favourites?"  
Persion said, "The odds favour Samandriel for a Dark Angel, Maxivus for an Ultramarine and Leanyr for an Imperial Fist."  
Bylan snorted and said, "+With that face, no way. He's an Iron Hand no mistake+"  
Wrethan burst in to growl, "Gambling is a vice, one beneath the dignity of the Storm Heralds. You will cease and desist this at once."

The group fell silent as they approached the hillock, rising effortlessly up its sides. Bylan kept the Standard straight so its colours were unruffled and could be seen by all. Soon they reached the top and the crowd parted before them. Standing there with his customary smile was Baruch, who seemed to be listening to an old man complain about being dragged out here for a lot of fuss.

He straightened as they came into view and called, "Ah welcome my friends, how was your morning?"  
Toran replied, "As well as can be expected."

From the side there was a harrumph, issued by the one called Maxivus. He was pale and angular, with a waxed moustache. His robes were well made and sharply cut, making these humble attire seem regal. He sounded dismissive as he stated, "Your Assault squads arrived twelve seconds early, their counter was sub-optimal."

Bylan bristled at that but Baruch said, "Now, now let our friends have their moment. It was certainly very energetic."  
Wrethan didn't sound pleased by the comment as he said, "This is important, the Emperor's work is never done. It is essential we be ever ready to fulfil our purpose."

Baruch spread his arms to encompass the crowd and said, "Why cling to an obsolete purpose when you have nobody to fight anymore. There are other duties to be fulfilled, we have found meaning working with our common man, helping them be the best they can be. Why Maxivus here has dedicated himself to promoting the growth of this civilisation's culture."

Wrethan was irate now and spat, "Astartes were made for battle not mollycoddling the weak. War is where we excel."  
Maxivus' lip curled and he said, "Astartes excel at war because we were made to excel in all things. There is more to life than blasting things apart; you have the time now to perfect your skills to their utmost degree."

Suddenly another voice cut in, it was Samandriel. He was beautiful for an Astartes, unscarred and smooth of face. He was a Librarian, literally and figuratively, both a psyker and a keeper of the local's knowledge. He was staring out across the battlefield and said, "We should not argue, the fault lies not with our guests but with ourselves. Have we forgotten how long it took us to accept reality, the decades we wasted following Ganaar through the tunnels? How many times did he say he could smell a way out?"

Baruch nodded and said, "Yes indeed, we expect too much from you. You will see in time, there is no need to rush. One Ganaar is enough."  
Bylan was curious and asked, "+You don't approve of his ways?+"

Maxivus sneered, "He clings to the past, dreaming of returning to what he was. The future beckons but he sits still."  
Samandriel expanded, "We let him have his way for he thrives on obstinacy. His identity rests on non-conformity."

"Still comes to me when he needs his Machine Spirits blessing though," another voice spat. It was Leanyr, a grizzled and scarred veteran. His face was cratered by old damage and one whole eye was but an empty socket. He was working at a drawing pad with a stylus and a frown of concentration. He was always doing that, seemingly designing everything from architecture and gardens to pumps and hoists.

Toran looked at him and inquired, "What are you designing now?"  
Leanyr replied, "An irrigation system, for the new farms on the perimeter settlements."

Persion said, "Isn't that rather simple work?"  
Leanyr replied without looking up, "Maybe, but the challenge lies in working within the limits of the materials I have to hand."

Baruch cut him off by saying, "I find that I must repeat my previous request to let your people down from your ship. Your crew do not need to live enclosed by metal and machines. There is fresh air and good soil down here, the towns would welcome new blood."  
Toran replied, "Our serfs will remain on the Thunderchild for now, they keep her on a ready status."

"For what?" asked Maxivus.  
Wrethan growled, "For when our Librarian finds a way out of here."

Samandriel looked sad and said, "He wont, not if he searches for a hundred years. Still we should let him try, his spirit will not know peace until he thinks he has tried absolutely everything."  
Baruch nodded and said, "In the meantime could we not at least meet some of your crew?"

Wrethan snarled, "The serfs stay where they are."  
Baruch bowed in acceptance but Leanyr muttered, "Waste of time and resources. That ship's big enough to feed this civilisation's hunger for metal for decades to come."

Toran glared and said archly, "We must continue our drills, will your people remain or leave?"  
Baruch replied, "The children grow restless, we will return to our town soon enough."  
"Good," said Wrethan, "War is no place for civilians."

Baruch bowed low and then stepped away. Persion shook his head and said, "How did they get so soft and apathetic?"  
Toran said, "They're convinced that there's no way out, they've forgotten their purpose. I can't imagine what that's like."

Wrethan said thoughtfully, "We need to keep the Company busy before they start to think the same. Drill them hard, regular exercises, forced marches, surprise inspections, I will not have weakness grow within our ranks."  
"I will tend to that," Toran said, "You have to go check on Arvael."

Wrethan's demeanour fell, even the cantankerous Chaplain not wanting to interrupt a Psyker at work, but from behind him Persion piped up, "Don't worry… Bylan volunteers to go with you."  
"+I do?!+" Bylan blurted out in surprise.  
"Excellent, well volunteered," Toran stated with a knowing glint in his eye, "You two go check on our escape plan, I will keep our honoured Brothers busy."

Toran turned and strode away, Persion in tow. Meanwhile Bylan said, "+So Father Wrethan, shall we go and see if our Librarian has made any more progress today?+"


	6. Chapter 6

**Locum Ignotum Chapter 6**

The land dipped before them, sinking into a shaded dell surrounded by trees. A few birds and insects chirped but otherwise it was silent. Few farmers favoured this spot, the slope was too steep and the trees not fruiting so it was largely ignored. It was a calm and quiet spot, a place few ever went and so the perfect place for a Librarian to meditate.

Into that dell Bylan and Wrethan marched, striding down the slope at a measured pace. They were outwardly confident and sure of step but in his hearts Bylan felt a wisp of trepidation. They were going to see a Psyker at work, one they knew well but still anything to do with the Warp unnerved them. Astartes were indoctrinated to loathe and revile the Warp and despite all the noble deeds of Librarians their eldritch ways were unsettling.

Bylan shifted the weight of the Standard to avoid a low-hanging branch and he asked, "+How long as Arvael been here?+"

"Two weeks," Wrethan replied, "And he hasn't moved a muscle the whole time ."

Bylan mused, "+Do you think he's found anything?+"

Wrethan muttered, "He better have."

Silence fell as the pair marched onwards and then passed into the centre of the dell. In the heart of the space were two forms. The first was a black Menhir; it was twenty foot high and marked with strange glyphs. They seemed to be scattered everywhere in this strange land but dew little notice, as if the inhabitants had grown so used to them that they no longer even saw them.

The other form was that of Arvael, who was sitting on a rock with his head bowed. His armour prohibited him from crossing his legs but otherwise he seemed to be in quiet meditation. He obviously hadn't moved for a long time, sharp leaves and twigs had gathered in the corners of his joints and his face was damp with misty dew. His eyes were closed and his breathing slow yet his psychic hood glimmered with power, hinting at the activity of his mind.

Bylan swallowed a knot of anxiety and said, "+Any change?+"

"None," Wrethan replied, "He is unmoved."

Bylan asked, "+Is that good or bad?+"

"Who can say," Wrethan stated, "The ways of the Librarius are not for us to know."

Bylan said, "+The Captain will be disappointed, I wanted to bring him good news+"

Wrethan eyed him and remarked, "You remain very loyal to Captain Toran."

Bylan frowned and said, "+You say that like it's a bad thing+"

Wrethan thought for a second and said, "We are fortunate to have a skilled and considerate Captain, yet loyalty to one person can be misplaced. Remember our first duty is to the Divine Emperor, then the Chapter, then our officers."

Bylan shook his head and said, "+How can that be a problem, Captain Toran is utterly loyal+"

"Of course," Wrethan said, "Just remember he is not immortal, the day may come when you have to serve under another Captain."

Before Bylan could reply there was a groan and both of them looked over to see Arvael stirring. They waited as he shook his head wearily and then slowly stood up, spilling detritus from his joints. Arvael opened his eyes blearily and said, "How long?"

Wrethan replied, "Two weeks."

Arvael croaked a response then drew a tube from his gorget and drank deeply from his armour's recycled fluid supply. After a moment he said, "It seemed longer."

Bylan was eager for news and questioned, "+What have you found?+"

Arvael worked a crick from his neck and said, "I found some answers and many more mysteries."

"More detail, less metaphor," Wrethan growled.

Arvael frowned but said, "I have sent my mind's eye across this strange land, scouring it end to end. I examined the mountain tops and the sea bottoms, the vaults of heaven and the deep places of the earth. Then I sent my vision into the tunnel network beyond, exploring every branch and tributary, every possible means of escape."

"+Did any of them pan out?+" Bylan asked.

"Not a one," Arvael said, "The tunnels are arranged like some great web, spread over the surface of the warp. They all lead back to this landscape, drawing any wanderer here no matter what route they choose. There are numerous portals to allow entrance but none lead back out. It's hard to describe but the portals are like valves, they let specific objects in but not out again, choosing them according to some unknowable criteria. And before you ask, no I can't force one open from this side, they don't work like that."

Bylan was disappointed and said, "+So you found nothing useful+"

"I wouldn't say that," Arvael replied, "I am convinced this place is an artificial construct, not a natural phenomenon. Someone built this place, for a purpose. Look at the sky and the land, it's all too perfect. This whole environment has been deliberately sculpted, apart from the lack of metal in its structure it's a perfect recreation of a planetary environment. Even the ecosystem has been tailored, from the flora and insects all the way up to the herd beasts and apex predators. Whoever wrought this construct made it as a residence for some form of human analogue life-form."

Wrethan sounded vexed under his skull-helm as he queried, "Xenos?"

"Most definitely," Arvael stated, "No human Psyker could form a construct like this, perhaps the Eldar at the height of their empire could have done it but not anymore."

Bylan pressed, "+But why would anyone make all this?+"

Arvael explained, "I have narrowed it down to three possibilities, the first is Malevolence. There are numerous hostile races that feast upon others in various ways. This construct could be like a fishing net, drawing in prey for easier consumption."

Wrethan mused on this and asked, "So where are the fishermen?"

"Perhaps they went extinct," mused Arvael, "This is place is inconceivably old."

Bylan didn't like that thought and probed, "+What are the other options?+"

Arvael drew in a breath and said, "Curiosity, the builders may have wanted to observe and study certain lifeforms under controlled conditions. This construct could be a vast specimen container or zoological habitat. A place to keep their subjects in captivity and study them. Perhaps even to preserve endangered species and save them from extinction."

Wrethan shook his head and said, "Too cold and impassive, the universe hates humanity. Nothing save the Emperor cares for the preservation of Mankind."

"+What was the last possibility?+" Bylan pressed.

"Desperation," Arvael said, "This construct could be a vast lifeboat or bunker, a place to escape terrible dangers. I cannot conceive of a better hiding place, nothing in the Materium or the Warp can reach here save that which is deliberately drawn in. One could ride out the death of the galaxy in here."

Bylan was bemused and said, "+But why didn't they leave a way out, why would they seal this place away forever?+"

"Depends on what they were running from," Wrethan muttered, "So, do you have any practical leads to follow?"

"Maybe," Arvael said gesturing at the Menhir, "These stones are the nexus of this whole place. They channel empathic power, amplifying it and relaying it on to the next. The matrix they form gives this place its shape and structure; generating this environment and maintaining it. They also give the construct its immunity to the corrosive effects of the Warp itself and make it undetectable to Daemonkind."

An idea struck Bylan and he blurted out, "+So why don't we blow a few up and crack open a door!+"

Arvael fixed him with a glare and said, "For the same reason one does not overload a Plasma reactor while standing directly underneath it. The devastation would be catastrophic, untold destruction would unfold. We'd be lucky if all it did was to drop us into the Warp."

Wrethan gazed up at the Menhir and wondered, "If these things channel and relay power then the question becomes, where does the energy originate from?"

Arvael nodded in appreciation and said, "Exactly, that is the key to everything. At first I thought they drew energy from the Warp itself but I was completely wrong, the empathic power is generated internally. There is a source to this place, one that eludes me. But if I can find it and understand its nature then I may be able to discern a way out."

"+How are you going to do that?+" Bylan asked.

Arvael answered, "I need to talk to Samandriel again, I'm sure he knows more than he's letting on."

"Good," Wrethan said, "This is your highest priority."

"Well I better not waste any more time," Arvael said and with that he led them out of the dell, leaving the Menhir behind.

It was in many ways a shame, for had Arvael continued his scrying then he may have realised that he had missed something. While he had scryed the entire interior of the construct he had failed to realise that its very nature obscured the Warp beyond. If he been able to see beyond its walls then he would have witnessed the way the Warp's tides were heaving in turmoil, lashed into a frenzy by the rampant devastation sweeping the galaxy.

The Warp was broiling with unprecedented violence, surging into a hurricane of empiric destruction. Arvael had no way to know it but far way Cadia was breaking up, the great fortress-planet of the Imperium literally shattering under the onslaught of Abaddon the Despoiler. The Dark Gods of Chaos screamed in triumph as reality tore apart, sundered by the formation of a great rift that split the galaxy in twain. From the debris that was once Cadia to distant Ultramar the Cicatrix Maledictum opened, unleashing carnage on a scale humanity had never conceived before.

The effects on the construct were equally devastating, though none inside knew it. The tunnels heaved and rolled, like drifting rafts on a stormy ocean and the etheric walls were battered by tornadoes of Psychic ruin. The construct shivered under the strain, battered by storms well beyond those it was designed to cope with. Terrible stresses frayed away at the substance of its existence, tearing and clawing at the weft of its composition; all it would take would be the slightest flaw to spell its doom.

A thousand miles from where Arvael had been meditating a Menhir began to shiver. It was the same black stone as the rest of its kind but this one had a flaw, a tiny crack left by the erosion of time. The Menhir quivered like a string on a bow and a keening note arose, though there were none to hear it. Abruptly it shattered under the strain, spraying rock shards for miles around. Where the Menhir had stood was left a black crack, a dark rift standing in mid-air. It swayed and danced like a black flame for a moment and then erupted, expanding to form a doorway.

Out of that door came an armoured boot, belonging to a figure who stepped through the rift into this new world. The being was a Transhuman giant but not one akin to the Storm Heralds. His armour was a deep purple, covered in lurid etchings and sickening images. He had spikes on his gauntlets and shimmering silks at his waist.

His face was powdered and smooth, not a hair to be seen anywhere on him while the skin of his scalp had been peeled back, held down by nails to reveal the reinforced bone beneath. In one hand he held a Charnabal Sabre and in the other a Plasma pistol with an eight-pointed star upon it. He was both irresistibly alluring and sickeningly revolting. Any mortal who laid eyes upon him would have wept, both in terror and admiration, knowing that they could never be so beautiful, so perfect. He was an Astartes taken to the uttermost extreme, every facet of his being honed to its greatest potential, no matter how perverse it could be.

His eyes swept over the fresh, unspoilt land, taking in the virgin country and pure vistas. A broad grin spread across his face, revealing pearly teeth as behind him the black rift flared again and again and again. As an army of degenerates poured into the landscape Jubila, Lord of Chaos and favoured of Slaanesh, felt avarice stir in his hearts and he said, "Well, well, well… this looks promising."


	7. Chapter 7

**Locum Ignotum Chapter 7**

The local archive was a quiet and unobtrusive place, set well away from the edge of the town's centre. It was a long hall, with a slate roof and plain glass windows. Inside were long lines of shelves, with dusty books set in orderly rows. The entire place was meticulously clean, well swept and the windows gleamed.

Arvael noticed all these details as he stepped through the wooden doors and looked about the deserted space. As usual no one was about, for being the centre of learning of this civilisation he had noticed that few people ever came here. Musings on philosophy and histories of places they would never see held little interest next to the pressing business of growing crops and arranging marriages for the next generation.

Arvael stepped inside, his Mark IV plate humming smoothly as he wandered past rows of books. This small library was a humble affair compared to the great Librarium of his own Chapter but he had found several interesting pieces among the collection. Tomes written during the Great Crusade and even earlier, histories of the Unification Wars, a time the current Imperium held to be proto-mythic. Arvael had taken several of these items back to his ship, for serfs to copy and add to his own Chapter's archives.

He wandered down the centre of the library and soon heard the sound of a brush sweeping. Sure enough he spied Samandriel ahead, cleaning the floor with a stiff brush. It was a humble duty, below an Astartes' dignity but he didn't seem to mind. Somehow Samandriel made everything seem noble, even the humblest of acts. There was a modest wisdom to him, one that gave him grace beyond measure. Arvael had once commented that Samandriel could have won immense glory in war, to which he had smiled and said that he was content with a good book. It was that very indifference to the trappings of majesty that lent him a nobility all its own, one greater than mere acclaim or tokens of triumph could ever bestow.

Arvael coughed discretely and Samandriel replied, "I know you're there, let me finish first. A task half-done is twice the work."

Arvael waited as Samandriel cleaned the aisle and then set his brush aside. Arvael looked at the fair Astartes and then held up a small tome and said, "I came to return your book."

Samandriel took the book and said, "What did you think?"

Arvael replied, "Very revealing, the Unification Wars are a lost age to us. This information will be prized by my Chapter."

Samandriel inspected the spine of the book and commented, "You didn't find it a bit… bombastic?"

Arvael frowned and said, "No, I thought it was very factual."

"Really?" asked Samandriel in surprise, "The critics of my age thought it was pure hyperbole. Tales about armies of darkness and skies splitting, the earth spewing forth monsters and such forth."

Arvael shook his head and said, "Sometimes I forget that you have missed so much, that you have not seen what the Ruinous Powers have done to the galaxy. The things they can do defy belief; nothing in that book surprised me."

Samandriel sighed and said, "That is a sad tale, when Chaos first emerged we were stunned, perhaps if we'd been warned earlier… but no. It wouldn't have made any difference, despite what some say, we could never have been ready for that."

Arvael changed tack and said, "Do you have anything else to read?"

Samandriel eyed him and said, "You should ask the question you really came here to ask."

Arvael paused and then said, "You are perceptive, very well. I have scryed this entire construct and found there is indeed no way out."

Samandriel blinked and commented, "That was fast, it took me a century to come to the same conclusion."

Arvael waved a hand dismissively and said, "The Menhirs, they are the key. The energy matrix they spread is the bedrock of this place but I can't find the font it flows from. I've looked everywhere but the power source eludes me."

Samandriel paused and then probed, "You've looked everywhere?"

Arvael answered, "Yes."

Samandriel was quiet for a long moment, making Arvael nervous and then he said, "Did you look in the pit?"

Arvael froze in shock as he realised that he had not in fact looked down there. That strange crater that they had seen on arrival, ringed by the docking towers. This was bizarre, it should have been an obvious place to look but somehow it had slipped from his mind. That shouldn't be possible, his mental defences were potent but it had still happened. He examined his mind and found no evidence of tampering, no missing memories but somehow the pit had become unimportant to him, not absent merely unnoticeable.

Samandriel nodded and said, "Subtle isn't it, how it just fades from the mind. You don't forget it's there but somehow it never seems significant."

Arvael swallowed and said, "I must explore it immediately."

Samandriel nodded and said, "Of course but I should come with you, I can hasten your learning."

Arvael drew upon his power and it was but a moment's effort to slip free of his corporeal form, to send his vision flying free. Arvael sent his vision floating over the land feeling the presence of Samandriel beside him. He adjusted his perceptions to view Samandriel as a physical presence and he became a shining star, not blinding merely a light in a dark night. In turn Arvael imagined himself as a great bird and his ethereal form changed to match, spreading immaterial wings to soar over the land.

Samandriel's voice came to his mind, "Your skill is advanced, scrying comes easily to you."

Arvael replied telepathically, "I will never get used to how calm the Warp is in this place, so placid and neutral."

Samandriel replied, "I surmise this is the Warp's original state, how it would have existed in the ages before the first primates stood upright on Old Earth."

Arvael queried, "What evidence do you have for that?"

Samandriel answered, "You're about to find out."

Together the pair approached the docking towers, the Thunderchild a nest of glowing motes as the souls within it went to and fro. Below it yawned the great pit, miles wide and impenetrably black, even to incorporeal eyes. Arvael found himself reluctant to go in there, almost like it was forbidden. This wasn't any kind of barrier or ward he recognised, merely a suggestion that whatever was in there would rather be left alone.

Arvael pushed past it and sank down, circling ever lower into the depths. Samandriel followed, his light dimming in the unnatural gloom. Arvael perceived that the walls were lined with glyphs, shimmering with power and he said, "The empathic energy is strong here, these regulate the flow of power."

Samandriel replied, "They do far more than that, they are also ideas given form, philosophical memes and a written language all in one."

Arvael paused and said, "That is impressive."

Samandriel said, "A superior mind can operate on multiple levels, holding conflicting ideas in harmony. Using multiple dimensions to think at a level beyond our primitive understanding."

Arvael didn't like the way he was talking, admiring the Xenos minds that had wrought this place, but he asked, "What do they say?"

Samandriel answered, "They appear to be a record of history, speaking of an age so long ago we can't fathom it. Life was rare in that time and the Warp was calm, a realm of peaceful contemplation and indifferent entities. The glyphs speak of a race arising whom made it their mission to spread life, to seed the galaxy with other forms of intelligence."

Arvael had never heard of such a thing and said, "Who were they?"

Samandriel elaborated, "It's hard to say, their self-identity seems to be bound up with their creations, they only speak of themselves in reference to the races they nurtured. The closest translation I can find is 'First Beings' or 'Earlier Organisms' though I prefer the term 'Old Ones'."

As they sank lower Arvael asked, "What did they want?"

Samandriel explained, "The glyphs recount how the Old Ones spread across the galaxy. Using a combination of quantum beacons and site-to-site teleportation, which they eventually refined into a Webway of interdimensional tunnels. Everywhere they went they encouraged the development of life, seeding new races across the stars. The galaxy teemed with new races and then it all went wrong. The Old Ones met a hostile species, who it is claimed could not die."

Arvael felt the darkness pressing in and hastily guessed, "They went to war."

Samandriel agreed, "The glyphs tell of a war beyond comprehension. The enemy unleashed weapons that could kill stars and technologies so advanced they resembled magic, legions of undying metal men led by terrible Star Gods. The Old Ones responded by forging new, more violent species, creating living psychic doomsday weapons and self-replicating warrior races. Ultimately the war unleashed forces too terrible for the universe to contain, the fabric of reality itself was perverted. The Warp was devastated in the firestorm, changing into a malevolent and hostile realm that harboured an actively malevolent force, a Primordial Annihilator. The War in Heaven: everybody lost."

Arvael felt a terrible pressure building and a looming sense of dread as they descended and he whispered, "There's something down there."

Samandriel ignored him and continued, "Both sides were forced into retreat, the undying enemy sinking into a bitter slumber. The Old Ones however were a dispassionate race at heart and recognised that they had lost, so most of their kind accepted death and lay down to die. The rest fled the galaxy entirely, intending to start again somewhere else. But there was a small dissident faction who disagreed, they wanted to fight on. They believed that in time all other life would be scoured from the stars and they could reclaim all that they had lost. These few isolated a section of their Webway and inside created a refuge to hide from the calamity, a place to ride it out in secrecy until the time was right to emerge."

Arvael felt something stirring in the pit and cried, "Samandriel!"

Far below there was movement, an enormous sense of empathic power washed over them as something immense turned a fragment of awareness towards them. Arvael felt a mind fix him in its gaze, so cold and so alien that he had no common frame of reference to attempt to communicate. It was ancient and vast, eclipsing his understanding in every way. It was as far beyond him as he was beyond a mayfly, pondering notions that could encompass whole worlds and thoughts that would take a dozen lifetimes to complete. It had seen races rise and fall, over and over and it had barely noticed them, humanity was nothing but a brief spark of candlelight in its eyes. It was mighty, it was ageless and it was screaming in agony.

"They're alive," Arvael gasped and then he was retreating as fast as he could. He fled back to his body, flying like a shooting star as he sought the safety of his bones.

Arvael opened his eyes and found he was drenched in sweat, breathing hard as if he had just fought a battle. He gasped in horror and spat, "The Old Ones... they're still here."

Next to him Samandriel awoke, seeming equally weary and said, "Yes, I'm not sure if it is one guardian or some form of group mind but they still exist."

Arvael gasped, "They're in agony…"

Samandriel nodded and said, "The Pain Engine I call it, some form of psychic amplifier. It is the generator of the empathic power that sustains this place, its very heart. As long as the Old Ones remain here this place remains inviolate… you see now why we can't leave."

Arvael gasped, "They could obliterate us all without even noticing, I'm not sure they even comprehend us as anything more than insects."

Samandriel stated, "We dare not interfere with the mechanisms that sustain this place, the loss of even one Menhir might compel the Old Ones to act."

Arvael understood the scale of the threat. If the Old Ones were given cause to stir then there was no telling what might happen. The Imperium could not fight such a foe; there was no possibility of resisting such power. Arvael stated, "I understand now, the Old Ones could obliterate us all without even trying. We're truly stuck here."


	8. Chapter 8

**Locum Ignotum Chapter 8**

Over the landscape an army poured, flowing over every hill and through every dell. They raced across wide fields and through verdant forests, eager to explore the limits of this strange land and break them. Small animals fled before the tide, but not just out of prey instincts. There was something offensive about this host, a vileness that went beyond the mundane.

Throughout the horde bodies were flayed and mutilated, flesh pierced and peeled back in places. Eyes had been sown open and mouths hung slackly, unable to close. Writhing tattoos described unspeakable acts and many bore self-inflicted wounds that dripped purple blood. There were men and women in that horde, all grinning like maniacs, mixed with mutants so twisted they were barely human. Thousands upon thousands of filthy degenerates flooded across the land, searching for victims but they were as nothing compared to their masters.

Among the horde strode massive giants in Ceramite armour. Each one was a sight to blast the sanity of any mortal who laid eyes upon them. Their armour was covered in lurid images and clashing colours. Pink and black and gold were predominant but they were chased with every colour imaginable and some that should not exist. Their physical mutations were far worse to behold, tentacles for hands, bulging eyes the size of plates and tongues that hung down to their navels. They were a parody of the Emperor's noble design, an insult to all he had intended, just as their name was: Emperor's Children.

The Chaos Marines bore bulky weapons in their hand, chainswords, archaic bolters and cumbersome sonic blasters. These were often fused into their flesh, skin and metal woven together as one. Many crooned over their implements, treating them as if they were alive and hungry to inflict torments. At the heart of the horde strode Jubila, the Lord of this host and leader of its revelries. He was whistling a jaunty tune as he walked, seemingly pleased by the sights on display. His eyes took in the strange contours of the sky and the virgin potential of the land and his mind stirred, imagining the rack and ruin he could inflict.

Jubila licked his lips and said, "This has potential."

From behind him came a voice, gruff and impatient, saying, "It's dull, there's no one here to kill."

Jubila glanced back and saw a fierce warrior behind him. His name was Salmacis Gala, a pale Astartes with long white hair reminiscent of their beloved Primarch Fulgrim. His armour was covered in short spikes and in his hands he bore a sonic pistol and a long chainsword. There was a face upon that sword, an inhuman one that gnashed its teeth as one watched and whispered a constant sing-song tone of threats and pleas. A minor Daemon of the Prince of Excess was bound into that weapon, minor maybe but a hungry one.

Jubila grinned and said, "This is why you'll never be a leader, you never see the big picture. This place exists half in the Warp and half in the Materium, making it the perfect base of operations. Oh, the revelries we could host here, it's positively titillating."

Salmacis grumbled, "No conquest is worthy unless it is taken by force, without the spilling of blood the ground is not consecrated to Chaos."

Jubila's smile widened and he proclaimed, "Rest assured There is somebody here, the Neverborn speak to me of great slaughters to come. The heady rush of battle awaits us; we just have to find it."

From the other side came a rumble as another, deeper voice said, "It better had, I need to expand my collection."

Jubila glanced over and saw another warrior. This one was tall; a giant among their kind, swollen with corpulence so that rolls of fat hung around his gorget. His name was Baeghost the beautiful, a cannibal and a glutton whose insatiable appetites were pleasing unto the Dark Prince. He bore a large bulky Blastmaster in his hands, a Sonic weapon that could carve a tank apart. He wore Mark III plate, a model that had never found much favour in the Emperor's Children Legion, being too ugly and brutal for their refined tastes. To compensate Baeghost had covered his plates with a collection of skinned faces, each one chosen for their perfect beauty, hence his moniker 'The Beautiful.'

Jubila looked at him and questioned, "You grow impatient?"

Baeghost replied, "I grow hungry, I yearn to gnaw upon the bones of the innocent and drink the nectar of their tears. The hunger grows in me, I cannot control it."

Jubila patted him affectionately on the shoulder and said, "Do not try to control it: revel in it. Our patron demands that you indulge in every sensation, take every impulse to its most extreme edge. The only crime is to deny yourself."

Baeghost nodded and said, "I shall my Lord."

Jubila spread his arms and proclaimed, "Remember one and all, Perfection is not a state of being it is a state of striving. We must always press onwards, never pausing and never ceasing in our efforts to be all we can be."

Salmacis snorted at that but his contempt was covered by a shrieking roar behind them. Jubila glanced backwards and his grin spread from ear to ear. Behind him was a massive war machine, bound down with silver chains, held by scores of bulky mutants. It walked on six mechanical legs but its torso was fleshy and lurid pink. It had huge claws for hands and a roaring Daemon face that snarled in frustration and outrage. It was a Soul Grinder, a Daemon engine but not just any random Daemon.

Jubila had once served a Captain called Ozymandias, a proud and haughty Legionnary who gleefully followed their Primarch into the service of Chaos. So great had been his slaughters that he had been rewarded with elevation to a Daemon Prince, a state of affairs that had stirred jealousy in Jubila's hearts. The warlord had gone to immense lengths to track down his former Captain and learn his Daemonic true name, binding him into this shell of metal and shackling it with spells and wards. Ozymandias' screams at this betrayal and his loathsome confinement were most pleasing to Jubila and it made him laugh to hear the rage in his former Captain's voice.

Jubila sighed in satisfaction then said, "It seems our former lord grows bored, Rebis, find me something amusing!"

Ahead of them a Chaos Marine nodded, he boasted a long cloak and a twisted staff, glimmering with arcane energies. Rebis was a Sorcerer, one who had an affinity for summoning Daemons, and it was he who had opened the portal to bring them here. Rebis replied in a deep masculine voice, "My sister whispers of great power nearby, a source of energy just over the next hill."

Rebis was an odd one, even by Emperor's Children standards. He claimed to have power of his own but also that he was possessed by the ghost of his dead sister, a witch of no mean power. Perhaps it was true or perhaps he was just completely insane but the result manifested as a form of split personality, at times masculine and bloodthirsty at other feminine and shrill. Jubila followed Rebis over the hill and saw before them another Menhir set in a valley, carved with angular glyphs. He led his army down towards it and then had them pull up short, before circling it with curious eyes. Jubila looked up at the Menhir and said, "This is the source of the power?"

Rebis stepped up and his voice changed, becoming feminine and soft as he said, "Yes, great power flows through this, it holds this whole environment together."

Baeghost looked up and said gleefully, "Looks breakable, smash it!"

"No you fool!" shrieked Rebis in a feminine tone but then in a masculine voice shouted, "Yes, unleash the power!"

Salmacis pressed, "What would happen if we did?"

"This place could fall apart, we would be dropped into the warp," cried Rebis in a feminine voice but then in a masculine tone spat, "It would break the walls, allowing Daemons to manifest inside; we could set free a host of Neverborn!"

Baeghost looked at Rebis, his fat features screwed up in consternation as he said, "Seriously out of all of us, how messed up do you have to be to be known as the crazy one?"

Suddenly there was a flash of light and a shining ball of energy flew over their heads. It was a plasma bolt and it struck the Menhir half-way up its length, burrowing into its structure. A web of cracks spread over the dark stone and then it crumbled, splitting across its width so that the top half toppled over and hit the ground, smashing into a thousand pieces.

Heads spun around in shock and everybody gasped to see Jubila standing there, with his plasma pistol shimmering from the heat of its discharge. Jubila grinned and proclaimed, "Your arguing bores me."

"Yes, yes! Revel in the carnage," Rebis' masculine voice cried but then his feminine voice shrieked, "You have no idea how dangerous that was!"

Jubila was unmoved and cocked his head to say, "But did you die?"

Salmacis brandished his Daemon weapon and cried, "You fool, you have no idea what you're doing!"

Jubila saw his brash underling was spoiling for a fight and he casually lifted his Charnabal sabre, placing it upon Salmacis' breastplate. It wasn't a fast move or in any way harmful but it was very deliberate. Salmacis suddenly froze, his expression a rictus of uncertainty and intimidation.

Jubila enjoyed the trepidation stealing over his underling's face, the anxiety and distress building within him. Salmacis was a good warrior but was no match for Jubila. The warrior knew that the warlord could gut him without effort and had just realised that he had pushed too far. Jubila had casually violated his personal space and there was no way to tell what would happen next. To be honest Jubila himself didn't know what he was about to do. He was a creature who followed his whims; the unexpectedness of his actions pleased even him at times.

Jubila kept his sword perfectly still and coolly asked, "You have an issue with my actions?"

Salmacis dared not move a muscle but whispered, "No my lord, I have always served you loyally."

Jubila started circling his blade's tip, scratching a pattern on the purple breastplate as he said softly, "And for this, I should spare you?"

All eyes were on Salmacis as he pleaded, "I am yours to command, I serve at your pleasure."

Jubila increased the pressure on his blade, drawing a sharp screech as it scored the Ceramite and he said, "So you think my leadership has room for improvement?"

"No… yes… I…I," stammered Salmacis desperately looking about with his eyes for allies but finding none.

Jubila was entranced by the beads of sweat running down Salmacis' face and he began tracing his blade's point upwards as he asked, "Tell me, do you want to be the leader?"

"No never," Salmacis spluttered pulling his neck back from the rising sabre, "I follow your every word, my lord."

Jubila paused for a moment, utterly still and then withdrew his blade and said, "Good, glad to hear it."

Salmacis breathed a little easier and looked relieved but very subdued. Jubila drank in his submissiveness, enjoying his dominance over the warrior. Then he declared, "Now, tell me what effect destroying that rock had."

Rebis waved his staff for a moment then said in a masculine voice, "The etheric walls have cracked; the Warp begins to seep in. Smash a few more and we can summon our Neverborn allies, just enough mind you, smash too many and this place falls apart."

A ferocious roar greeted that, the war machine Ozymandias bellowing at the prospect of destruction. Jubila's felt a wave of eagerness sweep over him and said, "It seems our beloved former Captain likes that idea, we should indulge him. Go, spread out and find more of these Menhirs and break them, then we shall have a cavalcade of horrors to entertain us."

As the horde broke up and raced in all directions Baeghost asked, "What shall we do in the meantime?"

Jubila looked up at the sky and said, "I'm getting bored again, let's go find somebody to kill. That should pass some time."


	9. Chapter 9

**Locum Ignotum Chapter 9**

Voices were raised in shrill accusation, sharp words flying back and forth. Men and women squabbled and shouted, pointing fingers and hurling insults. A score of people all shouting over each other, not listening to a word the other side was saying. Amid that argument Chaplain Wrethan sighed to himself, not at all surprised by the state of affairs, these people were mortal, fallible and their weak hearts lacked discipline and honour.

Wrethan let the argument wash over him, silently ignoring the harsh words. He turned his eyes away from the braying mob and surveyed his surroundings, looking over the rude buildings. This was a small town, no more than a few thousand people, set in the foothills of looming mountains. It was right on the edge of civilisation, the very edge of the settled territories.

Wrethan had been requested to come here by Baruch, who was sitting upon the ground, his head level with the shouting crowd. It had seemed like an urgent request at the time so they had taken a Thunderhawk and the Command Squad, as symbols of their authority. They had piled aboard and readied for immediate departure, only to be surprised when Ganaar had arrived and jumped aboard, seeming to assume he had some right to be there. Wrethan had tolerated the impudence, expecting an emergency at their destination. He had been bitterly disappointed to learn that they had come all this way to settle a domestic dispute. An argument between local families of no great import. It didn't surprise Wrethan at all to find that this idyllic paradise was not perfect after all, it seemed human nature remained the same everywhere. Men still fought and drank and lied as men do and strife was inevitable.

It seemed that Baruch had taken on the role of judge and arbiter of civil disputes, trusted by all to settle these matters. He was currently listening intently to both sides, saying nothing as the grievances were aired. Wrethan in contrast had been contemptuous of these slovenly mortals, in his reckoning they all needed a good flogging. He had dispatched the Command Squad to patrol, Ganaar in tow. Only Jediah had let his frustration show, muttering about his hatred of this place and everybody who lived here. Wrethan knew that Jediah was getting worse, his temper was fraying and the Chaplain had resolved to keep a closer eye upon him.

Wrethan dragged his attention back to the argument, as far as he could discern it was about some girl who had married the wrong lad. Marriages were pre-arranged by families here and a match had been set with a man, who already owned a farm, which could provide for a family. For some inexplicable reason the girl disagreed and had secretly wed a younger lad, a scrawny youth with wispy blonde hair. Wrethan knew little of mating practices but he was baffled why any girl would turn down a grown man with his own farm for a boy with no callouses on his hands.

Thankfully at that point Baruch clapped his hands and everybody froze, staring at the huge giant sitting among them. Baruch looked the crowd over and said, "For shame, look at yourselves arguing over nothing."

From the crowd a voice arose, "But…"

Baruch fixed them with a glower and said, "Are you forgetting that we are all neighbours, friends even. You there, when your fields flooded was it not your neighbours who worked long days to save your crops? And you, when your wife fell ill and you had to go take your flock to the market who made sure your children were fed and clothed?"

The crowd fell silent, everybody staring at their feet in shame. Baruch stood up, his height and bulk making them shrink back and he proclaimed, "This is a cause for celebration not arguing. Two families are now one, let there be no angry words, there should be smiles and music and dancing!"

The crowd fell back, everybody looking unsure. They clearly were still angry but not one of them wanted to argue with a giant Space Marine. Their faces were equal parts fear and shame, knowing that Baruch had made a decision and not one of them dared to challenge it. Slowly the mob broke up and slunk away, their argument set aside, for now.

Wrethan watched them go, his skull-helm shaking from side to side. Brauch noticed the displeasure radiating off the Chaplain and said, "You do not approve?"

Wrethan snarled, "These people are weak, they fall short of the Emperor's vision."

Baruch mused, "You say that and yet your Chapter fights for his people."

Wrethan explained, "Because the Divine Emperor commands it to be so."

"So to you this a task you have been set, merely a chore," Baruch mused, "You do not care for the people."

Wrethan snorted and said, "It was mortals who let the Imperium slide into weakness and sloth, the High Lords and their endless intrigues have failed to hold true. The Divine Emperor must weep at what they have done to His dream."

Baruch was silent for a long moment then said, "How strange to hear you speak of divinity. You raise the Emperor up with one hand and discard his people with the other. But I remember the look in his eye when he told us how things should be."

Wrethan was about to argue but then he caught the hidden message and he stammered, "You… you… laid eyes upon Him?"

Baruch nodded and said, "Once, from far away. It was part of a joint muster of the Ist and XVIIIth Legions, he stood with Vulkan and Lion El' Jonson and addressed us before the final push to break the Ork stronghold of Varghraa."

"What was He like?" Wrethan breathed in wonder.

Baruch looked up at the mountains above and said distantly, "You only had to lay eyes upon him to know that he was the one and had always been the one. He was going to lead us out of Old Night into a new day. But it was the way he spoke that truly moved us, the lessons he imparted to us."

Wrethan couldn't believe his ears and blurted out, "What did he say?"

Baruch was very distant now as he recounted, "He said it was time for humanity to stop placing false idols upon pedestals, time to stop raising one icon up above all others. He said that our strength was at its peak not when we bow down but when we stand up. That when the day came that each and every man dedicated himself to the good of all his fellow men then our race would at last achieve its true potential. He said our fealty should be not to graven idols but to each other, that all our endeavours should be bent towards the betterment of humanity."

Wrethan was confused and said, "But he created the Astartes, He raised us up with His wisdom and great power."

Baruch pressed, "But where does that power flow from? Who grows the crops that feed your Chapter, who forges your weapons, your ships and your armour? How many ordinary men labour so you can march to war? Your strength flows from the common man, not the other way around."

Wrethan was stunned and whispered an old mantra from the teachings of the Ecclesiarchy, "The strength of humanity is the Emperor and the strength of the Emperor is humanity."

Baruch nodded and said, "We understood all too well that we were fighting for the goal of self-obsolesce, to create a galaxy where humanity no longer needed us. We were laying out the path but it was the common men and women who were to follow us, to inherit what we had wrought. The Traitors forgot that, I think, they forgot that our purpose was to serve humanity not rule over it."

Wrethan had never been so spiritually challenged so before and he had a strange thought, "To fight for the Emperor is to fight for humanity and to fight for humanity is to fight for the Emperor."

Baruch smiled warmly and he said, "Perhaps there is hope for you yet."

Wrethan was troubled by this, all his life he had devoted himself to the Emperor. Never had he thought that his idol would not thank him for that or condemn him for his devotions. Wrethan realised that he had much to think upon but suddenly there was a sharp scream, rising over the town.

Wrethan's head snapped up sensing a great commotion coming from the far side of the town. Instantly he was in motion springing into action and racing forward, Baruch in tow. Wrethan's dual pulse accelerated and in the back of his mind his soul quivered with the prospect of action at last.

He skidded around a corner and found an odd scene, people laying around on the ground, groaning and throwing up. Many of them had broken limbs or were clutching at their bellies and heads, contusions and sprains were everywhere as people cried out in pain. It looked like some wild force had torn through here, leaving devastation in its wake, smashing down anyone who was in the way.

Baruch's jaw dropped and he said, "What happened?"

Wrethan took in the scene, analysing the patterns as he said, "This is the work of one being, transhuman, using only fists and boots."

Baruch's jaw tightened and his customary smile vanished as he said, "Who could have done this?"

Wrethan already knew the answer, it was an inescapable conclusion and he spat, "Jediah... he's finally snapped."

For the first time Baruch looked angry and he snarled, "One of your Marines has broken faith with us, he attacks the innocent!"

"I knew he was under strain but I never thought he'd act like this," Wrethan murmmered.

Baruch clenched his fists and said, "He must pay for this crime."

Wrethan nodded and stated, "He has broken with our orders, this cannot be tolerated. Come we must catch him, he can't have gone far."

Together the pair of them sprang into a run, racing through the town. They followed a trail of crying and moaning people leading them to the edge of the town. Here the trail disappeared out into open countryside, leaving no trace. However they did find an unexpected surprise.

Crouched in the dirt was the distinct form of Ganaar, shifting the ground with one hand and grasping his axe in the other. His face bore a fierce expression of concentration but he must have heard them approach for he said without looking around, "You're too late, Jediah's already been through here. He headed for the mountains, where none will find him."

Wrethan hissed, "Jediah has lost his mind."

"Ja," said Ganaar, "The beast has awoken within him, but his soul has not yet been devoured. What follows now is a battle for his spirit, man against beast and it is one he cannot win alone."

Wrethan dismissed the mystical talk and spat, "We'll call up the Thunderhawk, run him down from the air. His dishonour will be expunged with fire."

Ganaar shook his head sadly and said, "He is too skilled for that, you will never see him from the air we must go on foot. I have his scent, he cannot escape me."

Baruch's eyes smouldered with fire and he spat, "Lead the way then."

"No," Ganaar said, "You are unarmoured; you will not survive if the beast wins the battle for his soul. I will take the preacher here and track Jediah down."

Baruch looked like he was going to argue but Wrethan put and hand on his chest and said, "You should remain, your people need you, now more than ever."

Baruch paused then nodded and said, "You are right, these people are scared and frightened people do foolish things. I will calm their fears; you must track down the criminal and see that justice is done."

Wrethan nodded and said, "He will not escape us, Jediah will be found and made to pay for his crime. One way or another."

Ganaar gripped his axe and stared at the snowy peaks above as he said, "This I swear to you, Jediah shall come back as a man or not at all."


	10. Chapter 10

**Locum Ignotum Chapter 10**

Snow covered everything, laying thickly upon the rocks, boulders and hardened ground. This high up the mountain the trees had long since died out, unable to grow in the constant, freezing conditions. What was left was a barren land of ice and rock, where even animals dare not go. Wrethan reflected upon this as he followed Ganaar ever higher, tracking the scent of the criminal Jediah. The constant golden light gave everything a yellow tinge; reflecting off the snow and making it seem to glow. Just when Wrethan he thought he was used to the ways of this strange land it threw up something bizarre, why the builders of this place would need barren mountains baffled him but there must be some reason.

Wrethan took a moment to think about their Librarian, he was certain that Arvael knew more than he was letting on. The Librarian had been reticent for days now, refusing to talk about what his investigation had uncovered. All he had said were firm admonitions to leave the Menhirs alone, other than that he refused to be drawn. Wrethan was sure Arvael was keeping things from the Company, but then he was a Psyker, his primary purpose was to deal with mysteries so the mundane Marines didn't have to.

Wrethan dragged his attention back to the hunt, seeing Ganaar stooping to examine the snow. Pressed into the white powder was the perfect imprint of an Astartes' boot and the old wolf paused to examine it. "Fresh," he stated, "Jediah is not far ahead."

Wrethan nodded and gripped his Crozius as he declared, "Good, after three days of pursuit the time has come for the reckoning."

Ganaar stood up and kept his axe close as he said, "You intend to cut his thread?"

Wrethan said, "If we must, I doubt Jediah will let us take him alive."

Ganaar led them on as he said, "Tell me of Jediah, was he always like this?"

Wrethan nodded his skull-helm and explained, "We knew he was disturbed from the moment of his induction, there was always darkness within him. The training instructors firmly believed had we not inducted him then he would have gone on to become a serial killer. He was a murderer through and through."

Ganaar seemed puzzled and said, "You lot don't smell like murderers, too much of your Primarch in you. So rigid that the stick up his arse had a stick up its arse."

Wrethan sighed and said, "The Chapter has a need for killers, honour does not win wars alone."

"So you tried to wean him off it," Ganaar stated.

"We taught him to value skill and strength," Wrethan corrected him, "To see the value of obedience."

"You tried to tame the beast," Ganaar said, "But it cannot be tamed, its hunger cannot be satiated. Man against beast, that is the nature of all Astartes."

"Very poetic," Wrethan said, "But not inaccurate, we are warriors first and foremost. Violence comes naturally to us, but it must be tempered with discipline lest we fall as the Traitors did. Jediah has failed that test, yet it is odd that he left his victims alive… that is not like him at all."

Ganaar stepped onwards and said, "Then something of the man remains, the beast has not won yet. His soul may yet be reclaimed and the man brought back alive."

Wrethan followed him muttering, "Given the penances he would have to endure for losing discipline it may be kinder to kill him."

Together the pair pressed on, heading in a field of large boulders. Snow lay thick on the ground here and the trial became stark, the tracks standing out clearly. Ganaar paused by a large snowdrift and frowned saying, "This is too easy."

Wrethan gripped his Crozius and inquired, "What do you mean?"

"The tracks are too obvious," Ganaar said, "Jediah would not be so careless."

Wrethan grasped what he meant and snarled, "He's doubled back, it's a trap!"

Suddenly behind them the snowdrift erupted, as an armoured figure exploded outwards. Wrethan had a brief glimpse of blue armour coming right at him and then a Fractal-edged short sword flew at his face. Wrethan would have died then and there but at the last moment there was a flare of light as his Rosarius activated. A shimmering force field blazed before him, deflecting the lethal edge of the blade and saving his life.

Wrethan's reaction time was blinding, he swung his Crozius at the looming form of Jediah but the warrior expected this and ducked underneath. The Chaplain corrected and came back on the reverse but before he could connect a boot slammed into his mid-riff, driving him back.

Wrethan staggered for a moment then Jediah sprang at him, smashing a fist into his faceplate. Wrethan's head snapped back and he was forcibly reminded that while Novak was the most skilled with a blade, nobody in the Company was as deadly as Jediah. Wrethan struggled to regain his balance and Jediah pounced, relishing the coming kill.

At that moment there was a grey blur and an armoured form slammed into Jediah, it was Ganaar, tackling the warrior around the waist. The pair slammed down into the snow and rolled over and over, kneeing and elbowing each other in a fierce scrum. Jediah tore a furrow down the layered Ceramite of Ganaar's Mark II plate but in return an axe blow smashed his faceplate, destroying his helm's lenses.

The pair broke apart and Jediah rolled to his feet, tearing his helm free. His face was a mask of rage and ferocity, a bestial anger consuming him. Wrethan was uncomfortably reminded of the faces of Khorne Berserkers he had slain and he cried out, "Jediah stand down, temper your humours and be calm!"

From beside him Ganaar snarled, "Do not listen to that, you must fight. Fight for your very soul!"

Jediah leapt at them screaming, "You won't take me back, I won't go back to that. You'll have to kill me or I will kill you!"

Wrethan took a blow upon his pauldron as Jediah slammed into him, bowling them both over. Wrethan fell and as he did so felt a stabbing pain in his legs, it was his hamstrings he realised, Jediah had just severed them. He fell into the snow, his legs flopping uselessly below him as Jediah flipped back up to his feet.

Ganaar leapt axe in hand as he bellowed, "The beast has its fangs in your spirit but you are not gone yet. You must fight it; fight to remember that you are a man not an animal. Gather your strength and fight for all your worth!"

Jediah flew at him and roared, "Blood for the Company, Skulls for the Chapter!"

Ganaar met him with the flat of his axe, knocking him away as he yelled, "Remember who you are, you are Jediah, born of the Storm Heralds. You are a Brother and a man; do not let the beast take you down into the darkness!"

Jediah snarled, "It's too late for that, all I see is the darkness."

Ganaar barked, "No, you knew better when the beast tried to take you. You did not kill those mortals, the man in you would not allow it. Bring forth that man, he must drive the beast out and stand with us. A beast could not do that, it would not recognise friend from foe but you still can, come back to us!"

"I can't stop, it won't let me," Jediah screamed as leapt, "The darkness is all!"

As Wrethan watched they smashed together, blades flashing to tear and gouge. Jediah's sword slashed across Ganaar's arm drawing blood but the Space Wolf's axe flashed upwards drawing a red line across the warrior's face. The pair wrestled back and forth, hammering away at each other. Jediah's sword flew from his hand in the scrum and Ganaar's axe was knocked from his grip.

Wrethan watched their furious combat, the pair smiting each other with depthless rage and he couldn't tell which one was more bestial and savage. Then Ganaar leaned back before slamming his head forward, smashing his skull into Jediah's. The Storm Herald was dazed and unable to stop a follow-up punch to the gut that dropped him to his knees in the snow.

Jediah looked up, blood pouring from his split head and he gasped, "I can't do it, I can't live in peace. You'll have to kill me, that is the only peace I will ever know."

Ganaar's face filled with rage and he cried, "Peace, you dare speak to me of peace?!"

Ganaar slammed a fist across Jediah's face, snapping his head back. Jediah sprawled in the snow but Ganaar grabbed him by the back of the neck and heaved him up, he tensed then slammed Jediah's face into a boulder. The stone cracked under the impact and blood ran freely down Jediah's stunned face as Ganaar roared in anger, "There is no peace among the stars, there is only war!"

Again he slammed Jediah's face into the rock, shattering his nose and as the blood flowed down his chin Ganaar bellowed, "There is no peace in the hearts of men, there is only war!"

Once more Ganaar slammed Jediah into the boulder, spraying shattered teeth everywhere as he screamed, "There is no peace to be found in death, there is only war!"

He span Jediah around and grabbed at the gorget then he drew back his fist and furiously smote the warrior across the face as he yelled, "This is who we are: war within!" Once more he smashed Jediah in the face shouting, "War without!" then again his fist struck crying, "War eternal!"

Suddenly Jediah's hand shot up and he grabbed Ganaar's fist, not in challenge but in acquiescence. Jediah breathed through a mouth of blood and shattered teeth, "Stop, I yield."

Ganaar gripped him by the gorget and barked, "You are yourself again… the man speaks now not the beast?"

Jediah nodded and gargled, "I see now, the darkness retreats. I am… myself once more."

Wrethan forced himself to his feet, his hamstrings already reknitting as he said, "You have broken faith with the Chapter's teachings."

Jediah bowed his head and gurgled, "I have, I shall pay penance."

Wrethan picked up his Crozius and growled, "Indeed you shall, your agonies shall be severe."

Jediah didn't argue but glanced at Ganaar and said, "No one has ever shared my struggle before. The darkness, I knew it was a part of me but the way you spoke, it made me see that it had to be fought. You brought me back… you saw into the very heart of me."

Ganaar stepped back and looked away saying, "It is a battle I know all too well, I fight it every day."

Wrethan was surprised and said, "You do?"

"Ja," Ganaar said, "The others pretend it is not in their hearts too, that they can live happily without war but I see the way it chafes at them. They all yearn for it but they deny it with talk of peace… peace the very word is an insult. Peace is an illusion; war will find us all sooner or later. It is inevitable, if not from outside then from within."

Jediah woozily struggled to his feet and said, "You are right, it was shameful of me to surrender to the darkness. I let peace defeat me."

"The beast hungers," Ganaar stated "It keeps you sharp, gives you your strength but it is not tame. Always we must struggle to master it, lest it turns on us and makes men into monsters."

Wrethan shook his head and said, "We must return, you have recompense to offer and…"

Suddenly there was a most unexpected occurrence. The warm golden light that had been constant and unwavering since their arrival unexpectedly flickered. It disappeared for a moment, plunging the mountain into darkness. Nothing could be seen for there was only inky blackness all around then it was gone.

It was like blinking, so sudden and sharp that it was almost unnoticeable. Wrethan thought he was mistaken but then it happened again; pitch blackness engulfing the whole land for several seconds. Time stretched out into an eternity before the light returned, making the snow glow once more.

Wrethan saw the shock on Ganaar's face and said, "Does that happen often?"

Ganaar was wide eyes and said, "No, not once in all the centuries I've been here."

Jediah blinked and said, "What does this mean?"

Ganaar picked up his axe in a fierce grip and declared, "It means that you have returned to us just in time, war has found us at last."


	11. Chapter 11

**Locum Ignotum Chapter 11**

In the golden light a town was burning, smoke and ashes rising high in a towering column of darkness. It was a simple settlement, built out of wood and stone and thatch. Small buildings were dotted here and there, laid down not according to some grand plan but rather around the routes cattle took to get to market and random urban growth. Perhaps ten thousand people lived here in total, living their lives blissfully unaware of the danger falling upon them.

Perhaps if they had known what was to come they would have invested in defensive walls and studier construction but it would have made no difference. Hundreds of screaming horrors had come, a wave of rampant corruption and mutation. Mutilated beings, covered in obscene tattoos and piercings, were running amok in the streets, unleashing nightmares.

The mob broke down doors and dragged people from their beds, smashed open every hiding spot and pulled screaming men and women into the streets. The acts committed upon those helpless victims would have blasted the sanity of any witnesses, leaving them gibbering mad wrecks. The lucky ones were those that died quickly, the unfortunate ones were those who lived long enough for the degenerates to work their vile practices.

Amid that carnage Jubila strode with a jaunty tune, enjoying the depravities on display. These amusements pleased him; it was always good to see his followers pushing their boundaries. New and bold experiences were being tested here; every follower of Slaanesh striving to reach the most extreme limits of what was possible. It was not that they didn't know these things were obscene; it was that the knowledge added a delicious relish to the experience.

Jubila's followers had found this little settlement and he had not hesitated to lead a selection of his followers here personally. Let his lesser minions undertake the monotonous task of breaking this strange land's ethereal walls; he was bored and needed something to attract his God's attention. This was his driving motivation; Slaanesh was a fickle entity and wont to abandon any worshipper who did not provide a constant stream of amusement. So Jubila moved ever on, never looking back and always striving to surpass his rivals. He was on a quest, one that ended in elevation to Daemonhood and immortality, but he had a long way to go yet.

Jubila spied a lone man cowering in a dark corner, gripping a wooden pitchfork to his chest. Jubila paused and let the man see him in all his glory, every perversion and mutilation on full display. It was always amusing to see how mortals reacted to his presence, the overpowering sensation of looking upon him. Some would throw themselves at his feet, some would attack mindlessly, others would sit drooling as their minds collapsed and on rare occasions, they would slit their own throats, rather than live in a world that could contain such nightmares.

The man's eyes went wide and then filled with incoherent rage, he gripped his pitchfork and ran at the warlord, screaming in horror. Jubila's smile widened, he liked it when they fought back, it was so futile and so improbable that they could achieve anything. Jubila let the man close to within an inch of his armour and then his hand flashed up, grabbing the pitchfork behind its head. The man stopped like he had slammed into a wall and Jubila made a lazy gesture with his Charnabal sabre. A quick slash across the belly and the man's fate was sealed, viscera and guts spilling out. The man collapsed, weeping and clutching at his entrails as Jubila stepped back in satisfaction. He was an expert at this sort of thing and knew it would take hours for the man to die.

Jubila had fought in countless wars and could kill with supreme skill but he never favoured that. Why kill quickly when he could do so slowly and excruciatingly painfully. To gift his foes with the maximum amount of experience from every blow, the joyous despair of seeing their deaths upon them. This was the first thing he had learnt when he pledged himself to Chaos, never go for the kill when one could go for the pain.

From afar he heard a frustrated bellow, half organic, half mechanical. Jubila smirked as he recognised the cries of Ozymandias, the Soul Grinder screaming in frustration and rage. The Daemon Prince within could sense the slaughter all around but was bound by numerous wards and silver chains. To see such delights and not be able to take part was an agony to a Daemon, to any follower of Slaanesh. It warmed Jubila's hearts to think of his former Captain in such torment, suffering eternally and unable to escape. It would have to be a truly desperate battle indeed for the Warlord to free his former master.

Jubila strode onwards, seeing his horde at work. There was Salmacis, throwing himself into the melee and cutting down fleeing mortals left and right. Salmacis was young, as Chaos Marines measured such things. He had not been there for the great Heresy, had not fought upon the soil of Terra or laid eyes upon the glory of Fulgrim.

Jubila had no coterie of genators in his horde, no Magos to forge new warriors. Such orderly and systematic work was anathema to him. Like many warlords when he needed new warriors he approached the flesh-smiths of Chaos, bartering spoils in exchange for blood. Fabius Bile was the most well-known of these savants but far from the only one and Jubila kept good relations with many of them.

Salmacis may be young but he was fierce, his weapon lashing out left and right, ripping and gouging at all nearby. The Daemon bound within cackled with delight, singing a fearsome tune straight from the depths of the Warp. Anyone who it touched was gifted with a revelation, a momentary flash of the power and glory of Chaos, communicated directly to their souls via the Daemon. Most touched by this Neverborn would fall screaming to the ground, filled with horror at the revelation bestowed upon them. Some others would start clawing at their own faces, drawing blood and tearing out their own eyes in an attempt to stop the visions. But a few, the most gifted , would abase themselves at Salmacis' feet, begging for more, just one more glimpse of Chaos.

Jubila left him to it, wandering on to find more delights. Soon he found Baeghost, his sonic weapon thrumming in his hands. His style of war was far more brutal, wonderfully bombastic and grandiose. He would take his Blastmaster and blow apart buildings, laughing fiercely as they collapsed in ruin. Home after home he levelled, blasting them into kindling. Every now and then he would pause and rip free limbs from fallen bodies, then his mouth would open obscenely wide, like a snake's, as he slithered the meat down his gullet. His fat form swelled with potency and his laughter grew and grew. Jubila was pleased to note that many of his victims were still alive and the Warlord approved of his tastes. If only these foolish mortals could understand the glory Baeghost bestowed upon them, in death they would achieve a greatness they could not hope for in life.

Eventually Jubila reached the town centre, where his followers had gathered. As he had commanded they had brought scores of mortals, each one unblemished and unmarked. They were being forced to kneel in the dirt, eyes wide with fear and dread. Jubila had a custom that he favoured, a practice that amused him greatly. He stepped up before the circle of people and saw that they were weeping, both in fear and from the smoke that filled the air. Jubila always savoured this moment, these people were friends, neighbours and lovers but he was about to show them how shallow those connections were. Under the right pressure any man would cast aside their supposed inviolable bonds and choose their own needs, it was the essence of Chaos to seize one's own glory over anything else.

Jubila spread his arms wide and addressed the kneeling people, "Rejoice! Today your paltry lives end and a new existence opens up before you. All you have done before was nothing but prologue, now you shall witness true drama play out. My followers demand fresh blood and new ideas, they offer you a place among them. You each have a chance to become the greatest version of yourselves that you can be, to embrace all that is excellent about yourself and take it to the most extreme potential."

Jubila's smile widened and then he threw a combat blade among the kneeling people saying, "Unfortunately, there is only one vacancy available right now, the rest of you shall be put to death." The kneeling people blinked and then a young woman caught on and dove for the blade, snatching it up in her hand. A man saw her move and leapt to intercept her but he was impaled on the point of the knife. Instantly a heaving scrum of people erupted, everybody fighting and clawing at each other, desperate to get their hands upon the knife and be the one to live.

Jubila stepped back, enjoying the sight of these people throwing away their morals and principles in the struggle to live. If there was one thing he was certain of it was that there was no line people would not cross in the name of survival. He relished the way friends and neighbours turned on each other, the way they betrayed and killed without thought.

His revelry was interrupted by a cough, both high and low in pitch and he sighed to hear it. As the crowd thinned in number Jubila turned to the nearest Chaos Marine and said, "Let them whittle each other down until one remains. Then take the winner and induct them into the practices of Slaanesh. Make them beg to serve me and then I shall show them the true glories of the Dark Prince."

Then he turned around and sure enough saw Rebis standing there, a bearing a smile that did not reach his eyes. Rebis looked elated one second and depressed the next as his personalities warred for dominance, a dichotomy that pleased their patron in the Warp. Jubila looked at him and said, "What is it?"

"Another Menhir for your damn plan," Rebis said in a high pitched tone then in a deeper timbre, "We grow closer to glory!"

Jubila cocked his head and said, "Well, what are you waiting for?"

Rebis nodded and blinked to activate his vox set. From afar there was the sharp rumble that Jubila recognised as the detonation of a det-pack followed by a crash of stone. A cloud of dust rose over the town as another Mehir collapsed but this time the result was different.

As the noise died away the rich golden light that surrounded them stuttered. For a single moment the light died out before blinking back into existence. Jubila drew in a breath but then it once again died out. For long seconds the darkness engulfed the world, broken only by the dim light of burning buildings. Slowly the light came back and Jubila's exultation soared as he cried, "The energy of the Warp returns, I can feel Slaanesh's attention being drawn to our works!"

"Damned foolish plan, the structure of this place creaks, we stand upon a cliff's edge," Rebis muttered in a feminine tone but then in a masculine voice, "The walls fall, our glory draws closer!"

Jubila looked up at the contoured sky and proclaimed, "Exhilarating isn't it, to walk the tightrope over an infinite pit. The knowledge that one wrong step could drop us all to our deaths. We have to find the right balance, that is all. Just a few more Menhirs and this place shall be ours."


	12. Chapter 12

**Locum Ignotum Chapter 12**

On the shores of a small lake a group of men were working, shifting dirt and digging furrows into the ground. They laboured with good hearts and familiar comradery, work songs on their lips and smiles on their sweaty faces. The irrigation system they were building would bring much needed water to the surrounding farms, improving their crops yields significantly.

It was valuable work but their enthusiasm was dampened by the presence of two beings. One was a large Transhuman figure with one eye, his name was Leanyr, a familiar but still intimidating sight to them. The other was completely different, a war machine twice his height, with a smooth chassis and potent weapons upon its arms. It walked upon two mechanical legs, that sank into the soft ground with every step and its reactor thrummed with power. Its name was Ajax and he was not happy to be here.

Ajax was facing a huge rock, a single boulder squatting right in the path of the irrigation system. On a normal world one could presume it had been left here by a retreating glacier but here who could tell, perhaps the designers thought it was ascetically pleasing. Ajax faced the errant rock and drew back his fist, then with a whine of servos he struck. A peal of thunder rolled over them accompanied by a flash of power discharging around his fist and then the boulder exploded, ripped to shreds by the disruption field.

As the noise died away a team of men approached from a safe distance and began clearing the debris. Ajax stepped back and his voice caster rumbled, "THIS IS A WASTE OF MY SKILLS."

Leanyr had an abacus in his hands and moved some beads around as he said, "You've just shaved three weeks of work off this project, hardly a waste."

Ajax stomped about to face him and snarled, "I WAS BUILT FOR WAR, THIS IS BENEATH ME."

Leanyr didn't look up as he commented, "No wars here, got to find some other ways to be useful."

"USEFUL," rumbled Ajax slowly as if in thought, "YES, ONE REQUIRES BEING NEEDED."

Leanyr glanced up now and mused, "I was surprised you agreed to come, I barely thought it was worth asking you in the first place."

Ajax was silent for a long moment then his vox caster blared, "I WANTED TO SPEAK TO SOMEONE OUTSIDE MY CHAPTER, SOMEONE WHO HAS NO EXPECTATIONS OF ME."

Leanyr lowered his abacus and said, "Look up to you don't they?"

Ajax didn't answer, for that touched on a thorny issue he had long wrestled with. Instead he lurched into motion and strode to the lakeside, labouring men hurrying out of his path. At the shore's edge he paused and looked out over the waters, glowing faintly in the eternal golden radiance. It was an odd sight to see a war machine just standing there, like a man watching a sunset and the incongruity was not lost on Ajax.

He cast his pict imagers over the water, the grainy resolution of his eyes barely noticeable to him now. Five millennia his ruined flesh had been entombed in this walking shell, five thousand years of carnage and slaughter and despair. Slowly Ajax rumbled, "I AM THE OLDEST OF THE STORM HERALDS, I WAS THERE AT OUR FOUNDING. I WAS NO CHAPTER MASTER, NO GLORIED CAPTAIN; MERELY A LINE BROTHER WHO MANAGED TO FALL GLORIOUSLY IN A DESPERATE BATTLE. DESPITE THAT THESE YOUNGSTERS SEE ME AS A TOUCHSTONE OF A GLORIOUS PAST, A RELIC OF A BETTER TIME. They revere me; sometimes I think they revere me too much."

Leanyr glanced up with a frown and said, "Your voice, it just changed."

Ajax replied, "I don't have to speak like that, this vox caster has a number of settings."

Leanyr looked confused and said, "I thought it was broken, I was going to offer to fix it. I never considered you spoke that way deliberately."

Ajax explained, "One has certain expectations to live up to: to be the indomitable, unbreakable Dreadnought. That's what my Brothers want to see, it comforts them in the most desperate of battles. When times are bleak and the foe is beyond counting they see Honourable Ajax striding to war and know that victory is still within reach."

Leanyr rubbed his chin and asked, "Do any of them know? Know there's more to you than an angry voice, that you have thoughts of your own?"

"No," Ajax replied, "And if you wish to keep your head attached to your neck they will not learn of this conversation. They need me to be a fixed point, one unmoving constant in a galaxy of horror. If they knew how wearying it was for me to be the Ajax they imagine me to be, they would lose heart."

Leanyr nodded and said, "We had Dreadnoughts in the legions, proud warriors, respected and admired but not revered the way you are. Times have changed."

Ajax sounded distant as he said, "Yes, times had changed and not for better."

Leanyr said, "We had been here but a few decades, from our point of view, when the first wreck came drifting in. We couldn't believe what we found in its cogitators, centuries had passed on the outside, that's when we first realised that the gradient of time was against us. What we learnt first elated and then horrified us. Horus was dead, the Heresy over but the cost… the cost was beyond bearing. The Emperor confined for eternity and his Imperium had substituted reason for ignorance, progress for stagnation, hope for fear. It was a parody of the Emperor's intent, a mockery of everything we had fought for. We didn't understand this new age."

Ajax was intrigued and stated, "I too was born into another age, my contemporaries would not have recognised your age but they would not understand this dark time either. The Imperium is dying; the End Times are upon us."

Leanyr nodded, "I think it was that truth which finally made us accept this fate. The galaxy we knew was gone, even if we could get out; there was no home to return to."

Ajax was silent for a long time, staring out over the water. Leanyr seemed to have something on his mind and after a minute he ventured, "I have always wondered, does it hurt?"

Ajax snorted in derision and said, "Of course it hurts, every inch of my skin is lined with tubes and catheters. Neural shunts are rammed into my skull, streaming input into my consciousness. This body is ceramite and plasteel but I feel it, I sense everything. Cold, sharp and hard, covering me in unyielding iron. It is more than my body, it is my tomb."

Leanyr sighed, "We took the technology from the Ironsides of Old Albia, during the Unification Wars. They said it was an honour but few Legionnaires believed that, few wished for such a fate. It was rumoured that some of those so chosen couldn't adapt, that they ended their own lives. Of course it was vehemently denied but the rumours never went away."

Ajax sounded distant as he said, "That I understand."

Leanyr looked at him with his one eye and said knowingly, "You do?"

Ajax replied, "To exist like this is… difficult. Not the physical pain but to watch the slow passage of time, to see it erode away all that you hold dear. Everyone I once called friends are gone, not even dust remains of them. Even the other Dreadnoughts are but pups, not one of them over two thousand years old. These children who call themselves Storm Heralds, they wander ever further from the path, straying into ignorance and foolishness. I try to steer them back to the right course but every time I sleep I find they slip further into religiosity and worship. Sometimes I wonder, what is the point of carrying on."

Leanyr didn't judge but said, "You find yourself tempted to take the quick way out."

Ajax replied, "Five thousand years of war and each and every time I march out there is the temptation to fight at less than my best, to let a foe land that one fatal blow. The thought is always there, the urge to hold back a fraction and let it end, nobody would know it was deliberate."

Leanyr inquired, "So why don't you?"

"Because they still need me," Ajax snarled, "These children couldn't last for long without me. Every time I think about ending it I hear the clarion call of war and know I have to march one more time. How could I die if I left them to face the horrors of the universe alone, I have to keep going, I can't stop. Not now, not ever. Not while war is upon us."

Leanyr nodded and said, "Duty, I understand it all too well. When our imprisonment became clear I too contemplated taking my own life. But I knew that I had to find a new duty to sustain me, a purpose to keep me going. During the Great Crusade my role was to tear down, to demolish and level all that stood against the Emperor's will. But when I came here I saw that I could be a builder instead, I could create rather than destroy. Building, planning and crafting, I don't do these things for pleasure; I do it because I have to, because I need to. Without that what am I?"

Ajax was silent for a long time, pondering this but then he said, "That may not be an option for me."

Leanyr sighed, "I was wondering when that would occur to you. I am no techmarine but I know Dreadnoughts require specialised facilities for maintenance, we have no such tools here and I doubt your ship can keep you going forever. Sooner or later some part of your mechanisms will break beyond our capacity to repair and then…"

"I die," Ajax said, "Death will claim me whether I will it or not."

Leanyr commented, "I see why you wanted to talk to me, none of your own kin would understand this."

Ajax sounded very distant as he said, "I could die slowly, falling apart piece by piece, mewling like a weakling or I could end it quickly. All it would take is one crack in my sarcophagus then I could walk into this lake and let the waters seep in. My amniotic fluids would leak out and it would all be over at last. No more pain, no more duty, no more weight of expectation."

Leanyr stated, "That would certainly do it."

Ajax was surprised and said, "You're not going to try to talk me out of it?"

"Not my place, not my decision," Leanyr said, "This place is secure; there are no dangers here, no more wars. Your kin will be safe, with or without you."

Ajax looked at the water, seeing it lapping at the shore and he said, "No more war, no more role for me. There is nothing more I can do for them, my task is complete. I am free to simply walk out there and not come back."

Leanyr didn't reply but let the Dreadnought think. Ajax was silent too, turning it over and over. He had fought for so long, waged war upon war, battle after battle for millennia. Duty had kept him going all these centuries, the call of war driving him on but in truth he was tired of it, tired of seeing his Brothers broken on the anvil of combat. He had seen so many youths grow old and pass away before his eyes, so many of them that he could no longer remember their names. Ajax turned these thoughts over and over, contemplating a decision he had avoided for thousands of years. It was so very tempting to just walk into the water and let it wash away all his cares. Minutes slid by as he stared and pondered upon these matters. On what would happen to him without a duty to drive him on and give his endless life meaning.

However his deliberations were interrupted as the golden radiance blinked out. For a mere instant at first but then again for long seconds. Darkness swept over the land, covering everything in an inky blackness before the light returned once more. Leanyr blinked his one eye in shock and said, "What was that?"

"IT WAS THE SIREN SONG OF WAR," Ajax boomed as his voice suddenly deepened and he rumbled, "IT SEEMS I CANNOT DIE YET. DUTY CALLS ONCE MORE AND AJAX MUST ANSWER."


	13. Chapter 13

**Locum Ignotum Chapter 13**

On a barren hilltop a gathering was taking place, a small group of Transhuman figures meeting at a prearranged place. It was a small hillock, set amid the surrounding farms, just within sight of the docked Thunderchild. The hilltop was bare of trees or cattle, little more than a bump in the landscape, which made it perfect for meetings. Many would have liked to look upon such a meeting but the people had been firmly shooed away, this was private, not for the eyes of outsiders. Stood on that hilltop were the members of the Command Squad, Bylan, Furion and Persion. It had been several days since Chaplain Wrethan had set off in pursuit of the errant Jediah and Captain Toran was busy keeping the rest of Third Company occupied, so they had been left in a strange limbo.

Mortal men would have fretted and worried over the fate of their comrade, whether he would come back at all. Space Marines were different; their lives were a constant parade of struggle and conflict. They could not waste time wringing hands over things that could not be changed, they had to move forward. Bylan reflected on this as he watched events unfold before him, seeing Novak their Company Champion, engaged in a ritual duel. Set against him was the one they called Maxivus, meeting him blade to blade. The two had been itching to test each other's skills since they had set eyes upon each other and now they at last had a chance to see who was better.

Bylan had left the Company Standard in its reliquary and was watching as Novak's burn-scarred face dripped with sweat, running down to stain his leather bodyglove. Full armour had been deemed inappropriate so they had met in lighter gear, armed only with blunted sabres. They had been going back and forth for nearly ten minutes now, dancing so rapidly that a mortal would have struggled to track their moves.

Bylan had always been amazed by Novak's skill, for he was fast and precise, strong and ruthless. His ability to wield any blade was preternatural and his talent for reading his foe's moves gave him a critical edge. It was strange therefore that he didn't seem to be able to make any headway against Maxivus.

The other Astartes seemed cool and collected in comparison, calmly blocking and parrying every strike one-handed. His movements were crisp and precise, never wasting more energy than necessary, never making a mistake. He held his other hand clasped behind his back, confident in his ability to fight one handed and it seemed that confidence was well earned.

As he watched them duel Bylan leaned over to Persion and said, "+He's good+"

Persion didn't take his eyes off the duel as he replied, "It's his style, backwards and forwards, a fencer's moves. Novak's just as good but he's a melee fighter, his style's much more side to side. He's been trained to guard his flanks; it's so ingrained that he can't help it."

Furion grumbled, "I'd like to see how long Maxivus would last in a real battle, fighting like that."

Suddenly there was a burst of movement and a rather complicated exchange of blows which ended in Novak's sabre flying free to land in the dirt. The pair froze with Maxivus' sabre resting in the hollow of his neck and Novak held up his hands to say, "The duel is yours."

Maxivus withdrew his blade and smoothed out his moustache as he said, "A fine contest, you have credible skill with a blade. But your weakness is your lack of focus; you are too easily distracted, looking for an attack from elsewhere."

Persion called out, "Easy to say, but in a melee total awareness is essential."

Maxivus sniffed and said, "It should make no difference, your pure focus should let you win through regardless."

Persion muttered, "Tell that to an incoming Earthshaker shell."

Novak bowed and stepped back as Maxivus called, "Who is next?"

Persion grinned and drew in a breath but Bylan was prepared this time and yelled, "+Persion volunteers!+"

"Excellent," Maxivus said as Persion glared but then he stepped forward and picked up the sabre in his augmetic arm. Furion called out, "Shouldn't he remove his armour?"

Maxivus shook his head and said, "It won't make any difference."

Persion scowled and said, "I'm going to beat you black and blue for that."

Maxivus merely cocked an eyebrow and raised his blade in salute. Persion went to do the same but mid-way he pounced, trying to catch his opponent by surprise. Maxivus didn't seem to be surprised however, merely stepping back and twisting out of the way. His foot came up and caught Persion's shin, sending him flying into the dirt.

As the Storm Herald sprawled in the dirt Novak laughed and called out "The match goes to Maxivus."

Persion picked himself up with a glare and said, "Bylan, your turn."

Bylan swallowed but stepped forward and picked up the sabre, Maxivus watching him intently. Bylan settled into a ready position and waited, not moving a muscle. Maxivus' face didn't move but his sword tip probed forward, testing his defences.

Bylan didn't make Persion's mistake, keeping his motions constrained and defensive, not wanting to reveal himself too soon. Maxivus pressed forward to force a reaction and was deflected by a parry; he sniffed and said, "You are timid, overly cautious."

Bylan circled to the left and said, "+Maybe I just don't want to reveal my hand+"

Maxivus moved in response as he said, "No, you are a follower, not a leader. Your loyalty to one man weighs you down, limits your potential."

Bylan edged his sabre forward but Maxivus countered expertly, the Standard Bearer knew he was outmatched but was determined to put up a good show. As they circled he said, "+My loyalty is my strength, my duty is a humble one. I must bear the honour of a whole Company; I am content to follow Captain Toran+"

Maxivus replied, "You live in another man's shadow but you could be more, you could be superlative. You have the steel and the determination, you just lack the ambition."

Bylan was irked now and said, "+What makes you such an expert?+"

Maxivus stepped left again, sword point raised and said, "Peace has gifted me centuries to hone my craft, not just in the sword but in all areas. I have grown and learned much, become greater than I was, more precise and knowledgeable. Astartes were built to excel in all things and I have had the time to manifest that truth. I have dedicated myself to a program of improvement, both of this land and of myself, I am becoming more than the Emperor made me to be."

From the side Persion called, "That's arrogant of you; the Astartes are the Emperor's greatest achievement."

Maxivus actually laughed at that and said, "How much you have forgotten, the Astartes were never the pinnacle of his art, we weren't even the first of his gene-crafted warriors. There were others, the Geno 52-Chiliad, the Inferallti Hussars, the Thunder Warriors, the Custodes and of course the Primarchs."

Bylan was intrigued and pressed, "+So why did he make the Astartes into His legions?+"

Maxivus replied, "Because we were the most suited for the task, more powerful than the 52-Chiliad, more stable than the Thunder Warriors, more obedient than the Hussars and easier to mass-produce than the Custodes. We fit the task so became preeminent, but we were never the best one-to-one."

Bylan was shocked to hear that and his guard dropped for an instant. Maxivus' reaction was blinding, his sword point whipped up to cut across Bylan's cheek in a spray of blood. Bylan fell back desperately and got his guard up as Maxivus advanced.

He continued as if nothing had happened, "He sent us to war but it was made clear to us that it would not last forever, there would come a time when must we lay down our arms. Peace was coming or so we thought. Some of us accepted it and prepared for that day but not all. The XIIth, the VIIIth and the VIth, I can't imagine what he planned to do with those monsters once the Crusade was over."

Bylan tried a counter but Maxivus blocked him with ease. Bylan looked for a distraction and inquired, "+What was the plan then, what were the Astartes supposed to do after the Crusade was won?+"

"An intriguing question, one that doubtless played a part in the Heresy," Maxivus replied, "The answer is we don't know but everybody has a theory. Baruch says the Legions would have been disbanded and sent to live among the mortals as equals but Samandriel thinks were to become the leaders and teachers of men. Leanyr thinks that we would have been put down like rabid dogs and Ganaar says that we would have been sent into stasis, held as a fail-safe should some future threat emerge."

Bylan circled, watching Maxivus' blade as he said, "+What about you?+"

Maxivus replied, "I think we were to be the exemplars of a future humanity, one designed rather than given over to the randomness of evolution. The Emperor had used his arts to make perfect warriors but why stop there. I imagined a human race where every citizen was gene-crafted for their role: labours, artists, politicians, diplomats or pilots, each man designed before conception to fit his station. Perhaps the Emperor even intended to elevate humanity in ways I can't imagine, to take us down a path only he could see. Whatever the goal, it is clear to me that the Imperium he built was but a temporary measure, a cocoon for something greater to be born within."

Bylan thought he saw an opening and stuck forward but Maxivus moved like quicksilver. His sword flashed and Bylan saw his sabre go flying away, he couldn't even react before the sabre came back, pointed right at his throat. He held up his hands and said, "+The match is yours+"

Maxivus nodded and said, "You have potential but you limit yourself, you have to outgrow your humility. You could be magnificent, if you would only let yourself be so."

From the side Novak called out, "Cheer up, you lasted longer than Persion did!" eliciting a scowl from the communication specialist.

Bylan stepped back and Furion approached saying, "My turn."

Before he could touch the blade the sky rolled around them, a darkness blinking into and out of existence. Bylan was stunned and thought he had imagined it but then it returned, longer and more enveloping than before. Everybody was silent as the light returned and even Maxivus looked surprised, blinking repeatedly in disbelief.

"What was that?" Novak uttered.

Maxivus replied in confusion, "I do not know."

Persion however grabbed his ear and said, "We are receiving an alert, Captain Toran has declared an emergency. Third Company is to rally to the Thunderchild and prepare for war."

"War," said Maxivus in disbelief, "It can't be, it just can't."

"+But it is+" Bylan declared with certainty, "+Battle has found us, it seems your peace is over+"


	14. Chapter 14

**Locum Ignotum Chapter 14**

On board the Thunderchild a crescendo of noise arose as men ran to and fro, desperately responding to the blaring claxons. The serf crew had been drilled over and over to respond to this alert and they reacted with commendable speed. Reactors were primed, weapons readied and Machine Spirits blessed thrice-fold in preparation for battle.

Hanger bays stirred into life as Thunderhawks, Stormravens and Stormtalons were fuelled and primed, their guns loaded and missiles readied. Predator tanks were tended to by Serf artisans while Land Speeders floated on their anti-gravs, purring hungrily for action. Overseeing all this were the Transhuman giants of the Storm Heralds, ensuring that all was in accordance to the ancient traditions and rituals befitting such noble steeds.

Many among the mortal crew had grumbled at the repeated drills and preparations they had been subjected to, especially as they could see the verdant world outside their viewportals. But now the claxons were wailing they blessed their master's foresight and eagerly bent their backs to the task, grateful for the long hours of practice they had undertaken.

Elsewhere things were quieter but no less tense. Inside a large briefing room the Command Squad waited, displaying their symbols of authority to reinforce the seriousness of the situation. Bylan was stood by the doorway, holding the Company Standard aloft so its proud colours were visible to all. Bylan watched as the various Sergeants of Third Company started to file in, gathering for a situation report. They knew nothing of what had occurred, save for the strange darkness and each and every one of them was eager for news. Tactical, Assault and Devastator Sergeants, all ready to act and keen to be into the fray.

As each one entered they would pause fractionally by Bylan and reach out to touch the cloth of the banner. This was no arcane ritual or ceremonial tradition; it was a simple reaffirmation of their identity and beliefs, a unique bond that set them apart. Third Company claimed a spiritual link to their Gene-father, they spoke in hushed whispers of being the 'Primarch's Own' and felt this bestowed great fortune in war.

It was notable that the Captain and senior officers had repeatedly refuted such claims, Toran in particular was adamant in his secular philosophies. Still, such beliefs were hard to shake and (when the Captain wasn't looking) the Standard had become the centre of such customs. Reverence and belief were hard-wired into Astartes and the company had invested their beliefs into the Standard, it represented all their greatest victories and many held that so long as it flew they could not be defeated.

Ten Sergeants filed in but Bylan blinked when he saw Chaplain Wrethan arrive, he had been unaware the senior officer had returned. With him came Jediah, who looked like he had been in one hell of a fight. His nose was broken, his face was bruised and half his teeth were missing. His gene-implants would fix most of that but his teeth would have to be replaced by vat-grown replacements. Bylan wanted to inquire further but was even more surprised when five more beings arrived. Ganaar in his blank armour, followed by Baruch, Samandriel, Maxivus and Leanyr in plain robes. Bylan hadn't been aware that they were coming but Wrethan didn't say anything and everybody took that as unspoken permission for them to be here.

The group settled into the chamber, spreading out around a large Hololithic projector set in the middle of the room. Bylan noticed that their guests looked uncomfortable and whispered to Persion, who was standing next to him, "+What's wrong with them?+"

Persion replied, "I don't think they like the décor."

Bylan blinked in surprise as he looked around the room. Like all Astartes facilities it was lined with votive candles, small memorials containing busts of fallen Brothers and censers filled with smouldering incense. Servo-skulls flittered about, repeating looped High-Gothic psalms and the far wall was made into a mural, celebrating Him on Terra. This was hardly overblown; the Thunderchild was a relatively new ship and this room was basic by the standards Bylan was used to. Still even these meagre sacraments seemed to be putting their guests on edge, it was like they weren't used to the macabre iconography of the forty-first millennium.

Ganaar snarled as a Servo-skull drifted too close and it flew away with a binaric screech. From the corner Novak called, "Temper your anger, they don't bite."

Ganaar growled, "They might not, but I do!"

Everybody chuckled at that but the laughter was cut short as Captain Toran marched in, followed by Librarian Arvael. Third Company stood straighter and saluted with the sign of the Aquila, which Toran returned and then the Captain said, "Stand easy, there is much to say and not a lot of time to say it."

Wrethan opened the briefing by inquiring, "What triggered the alarm?"

Arvael stepped up and activated the Hololith, which projected a recreation of this strange land. Rivers and towns and mountains were laid out in perfect detail as he elaborated, "Simply put the forces of Chaos have found us, we are facing an invasion."

Bylan started in surprise but it was Baruch who cried, "That is not possible, this is a safe place. No hostile force has ever penetrated the walls."

Arvael replied frankly, "It seems that the situation had changed."

From the crowd a Tactical Sergeant named Matheus called, "What is the Tactical situation?"

Arvael depressed a rune and a black line emerged, engulfing several outlying towns as he said, "We have no orbital surveillance so I attempted to scry the land but I was blocked. The enemy has potent sorcerers amongst them and they are already working against us. However we were able to dispatch high-flying skull-probes to conduct aerial reconnaissance. "

Toran stepped up and said, "The enemy has apparently infiltrated a large army into these lands, they number in the tens of thousands. Mostly cultists and mutants but we spotted Traitor Marines among their ranks, the archenemy is here."

That brought angry growls from all and Bylan felt his twin pulses accelerate at the thought of those vile Heretics. Wrethan declared, "Those nefarious Traitors lost their rebellion, their existence is an affront to the Emperor; they must be eradicated to the last man."

Loud mummers of agreement arose from all the Storm Heralds and Bylan was among them but Maxivus interjected, "What sort of army did they bring? What is their composition?"

Toran explained, "They seem to be mostly infantry, light armaments only, few if any heavy vehicles and no air support."

From the back a Devastator Sergeant called Zeax spoke out, "No air support, we can rain down fire from on high and obliterate them. Hell, bring out the Thunderchild; a single barrage from her macro-cannons could level a city."

Toran shook his head and said, "The Thunderchild can't manoeuvre far enough away in this strange environment. She's designed to hurl artillery from orbit, at only a few miles distance she will be destroyed in the back blast. We're limited to Thunderhawks and Stormtalons only, thankfully vehicles shouldn't be impeded."

Ganaar snorted, "More than enough, we will wreak havoc."

Bylan noted that he included himself in his assessment but his confidence was shattered as Arvael declared, "There is another matter, the enemy has attacked several Menhirs. They seem to be deliberately targeting them, we can't allow them to do this, we have to stop them. The Menhirs must not be interfered with."

That brought bemused glances and Bylan dared to say, "+You said they sustain this place but surely we can stand to lose a few. What's so important about them?+"

Arvael seemed reluctant to answer and said, "The enemy thinks to draw more power here but they risk more than they know."

Persion pressed, "So what happens if these Menhirs fall?"

"It would," Arvael said as he shared a loaded glance with Samandriel, "Be bad."

Eyes rolled and more than few Marines muttered about the typically elusive nature of Librarians and their cryptic warnings. Baruch however interrupted their objections to say, "You speak only of the enemy, but what of the people? What of the towns that have been attacked?"

Toran shook his head and said, "We can only assume that they are dead."

Baruch seemed irked by that response and said, "You don't know that, some may have survived. You should mount a rescue operation."

Toran glared back and said, "You are a guest here, you do not dictate strategy."

Baruch looked like he was going to argue but Wrethan put a hand on his shoulder and said, "There is nothing to be done. Cast your mind back to the Heresy, remember what the Traitors were like, believe me when I say they have got worse since then. Anyone they have taken is lost already; we can only fight to save those who yet have a chance."

Baruch settled back and Toran took up the briefing, "Now we are badly outnumbered but not outgunned, the Codex Astartes calls for a series of airborne attacks and withdrawals. Hit them here, here and here and we shall break the horde up into manageable chunks, then we can eliminate each one systematically with superior firepower. The Codex estimates victory with no more than fifteen percent casualties… if the enemy has no surprises in store for us."

Wrethan declared, "You can take that as a certainty, the forces of Chaos must never be underestimated. We can assume they have vile Warp Magics at their disposal, we must expect the unexpected."

Bylan gripped the Standard tighter at that, as if it could fend off corruption and blurted out, "+But we have a Librarian with us+"

Arvael said, "I will do what I can but I cannot guarantee success, I am only one and they are many."

Toran eyed him and said, "About that… it seems to me that we have two Librarians here."

Samandriel blinked in surprise but Baruch cut in and said, "No! We have dedicated ourselves to peace; we will not join your war."

Bylan was stunned and noticed that Samandriel, Maxivus and Leanyr didn't seem pleased either however it was Ganaar who growled, "Speak for yourself, I've waited centuries to whet my axe's thirst. You can count on my arm."

Toran nodded and said, "We are grateful for your zeal but surely the rest of you can't stand idly by while battle rages."

Baruch shook his head and said, "We will not join your slaughters, we are done with all that."

Everybody glared at him, unable to understand his position and Bylan muttered, "+Coward+"

Baruch heard that and his eyes snapped up to say, "It is not cowardice to care for the innocents. Your plan leaves our people defenceless, these towns here and here and here are right in the enemy's path. We must protect them."

Toran shook his head and said, "This geography is ill-suited for a defensive battle and the front is too wide for one Company to hold. The Codex Astartes clearly states that this situation calls for an offensive action."

Baruch barked, "I can't believe you fight by a literal book!"

Toran's organic eye narrowed and his red augmetic flared as he said, "Do not insult the Codex Astartes, there is a good reason its teachings have endured ten millennia."

Bylan saw an argument was about to break out but thankfully Wrethan intervened to say, "You are both right, we cannot defend these towns but the people must be protected. They are too spread out and the territory works against us, so we should evacuate these people to a safer position in the shadow of the Thunderchild."

Bylan was surprised to hear Wrethan advocating the protection of mortals but Baruch accepted it and commented, "The people won't understand the danger, they will resist."

Wrethan nodded and said, "That is why your troop should speak to them, to make sure the people listen."

"Very well, we will speak to the people and get them to evacuate," Baruch agreed and then pointed into the Hololith saying, "This town here is closest to the foe, you and I should go there first."

Bylan blinked and said, "+You're going too?+"

Wrethan nodded and said, "If the enemy advances quicker than expected the people will need a rear-guard."

Toran looked troubled and said, "I don't like the idea of you going alone, take reinforcements. I can spare two squads from the plan, no more."

Wrethan said, "Then I will take Matheus and Zeax's squads."

"Then it is decided," Toran declared with finality, "Now the rest of you listen closely, here are your assignments."


	15. Chapter 15

**Locum Ignotum Chapter 15**

Panicked people were everywhere, grabbing whatever they could and heaving it into carts. Mothers called after playing children and elderly women grumbled under their shawls at all the fuss. Stern faced men gathered supplies and hitched beasts of burden to the carts all the while muttering complaints to themselves.

The people of this town didn't understand why they were being turfed out of their homes, driven out into the wilderness but they complied. None among them dared to question the word of the Transhuman warriors standing over them, their weapons gleaming with deadly promise. The Astartes had dropped from the sky, bringing word of terrible danger and commanding them to flee. Perhaps resistance might have formed but the reassuring presence of Baruch had quelled any rebellion, telling them that there was indeed great danger coming. They had to leave now, he told them, go now before it was too late and take only what they could carry.

Chaplain Wrethan watched all this from the town's edge, his skull-mask and shining Crozius ensuring that none dared to come near him. He saw the people struggling to make ready and felt a conflict growing in his hearts. It was his duty to protect these people, he knew that and he had gained an understanding that these people were the Divine Emperor's flock. He was honour bound to fight and die for them.

Yet he still found these people to be weak, one conversation was not going to change his mind on that matter. They were so accustomed to safety that they seemed unable to grasp the idea of a threat being upon them. They had bickered and argued and disagreed when they should have been running for their lives. Wrethan had been so annoyed that he had been tempted to flog a few as an example to the rest. The Chaplain saw Baruch ushering the people on and was amazed by his patience and compassion, the depthless well of concern he had for trivial matters. No matter how mediocre these people were Baruch seemed to think that they were worth saving.

Wrethan shook his head, unable to resolve this internal conflict. He decided that when they returned home he would seek spiritual guidance from his master, High Chaplain Samect, to steer him through these troubled matters. It was a good few seconds before he remembered that they may well never see their home again and the realisation made him sigh. Over the vox came the voice of Sergeant Zeax, his Devastators taking up what little elevation this town offered. He inquired, "Father Wrethan is something wrong?"

Wrethan realised he had left his vox open and covered by saying, "This is taking too long, these people should have been out of here by now."

Zeax replied, "We have got half the town out already, the rest should be gone within another hour."

"Too slow," Wrethan growled, "Too damned slow."

Zeax's voice took on a mischievous air and he said, "Do you want me to fire a few rounds over their heads to encourage them?"

Wrethan smiled under his helm but said, "Save your ammunition, I will handle this."

Wrethan set off and strode into the town centre, approaching Baruch. He saw the coal skinned giant helping an elderly grandmother onto a cart and the Chaplain called, "Baruch, how much longer?"

Baruch replied, "It will take as long as it takes."

Wrethan growled, "We need to make haste, the enemy is only an hour away."

Baruch commented, "These people have crops to tend and livestock to care for, they can't just abandon them on command."

"It's their crops or their lives," Wrethan hissed but then his vox blared.

Wrethan's head snapped up and he heard a distant voice saying, "Father Wrethan, come in. This is Captain Toran."

Wrethan opened a link and said, "Captain this is Wrethan, I hear you."

Toran's voice reported, "Father, Third Company is heavily engaged but reconnaissance Servo-skulls report the enemy is moving faster than anticipated. They will be on you in thirty minutes."

"Understood," Wrethan replied and cut off his vox.

Baruch frowned and said, "What is it?"

"Time's up," Wrethan stated, "Get these people moving now; anyone still here in five minutes isn't going to make it out."

He turned on his heel and strode away calling, "Brothers, to arms!"

Sergeant Matheus' voice came over the vox saying, "Should we prepare to conduct a fighting withdrawal?"

"Negative," Wrethan replied, "This is the only cover for miles around and there is nothing but empty fields in all directions. The Codex states that this is the most defensible position so we will make our stand here and buy time for the civilians to flee. Zeax position your Devastators along the main approach, Matheus spilt into combat squads and guard our flanks. Fall-back points at the pre-arranged positions. Our Thunderhawk, the noble Punisher, shall provide close air support. We will draw the enemy in and then call down annihilation from on high."

"Compliance," Matheus responded then stated, "Projections estimated that the enemy number in the thousands."

"Thousands of foes versus twenty-one Astartes," Zeax growled, "They won't know what hit them."

Wrethan swiftly approached the perimeter and joined Zeax's Devastators, who were spread out on the rooftops, the buildings creaking alarmingly under their weight. The Devastators boasted three Heavy Bolters and a lone Plasma Cannon, to deal with armoured threats. Sergeant Zeax himself had a Thunder Hammer and combat shield, giving his squad some much-needed punch in close combat. Elsewhere Wrethan knew that Matheus' Tactical squad would be splitting up, their own Missile Launcher and Flamer being positioned for best effect.

Wrethan opened his vox and declared, "Brothers, the foe approaches, confident that their success is nigh. They believe that their accursed Gods will watch over them but you shall prove to them how feeble their belief truly is. Each of you is a champion of the Divine Emperor, forged in battle and made to be the finest warrior humanity has ever seen. You are armed with the most potent of weapons and all know you to be unwavering in your devotion. What does the foe have that can compare to that: nothing! Their faith is nothing, they are nothing and you shall make this fact plain to them!"

The Storm Heralds cheered and readied their weapons, waiting for the first sign of the enemy. Wrethan felt the minutes creep by, stretching out to eternity. He wanted to vox Baruch and ask him for an update but of course he had no vox-gear or armour. All Wrethan could do was wait and recite litanies of fortitude and alertness to keep the squads sharp. Then at last the cry came, "Enemy in sight!"

Wrethan focussed his autosenses and saw the unmistakable sight of an army on the march. They were a rolling mass of flesh, clad only with silks and piercings. There was not a scrap of armour amongst them but their skin was so heavily daubed with tattoos that they appeared to be covered from head to toe. They held autopistols and knives in their hands and waved banners over their heads that hurt the eye to look upon, shimmering with unearthly lights.

Wrethan found his anger and contempt rising, to think that this scum dared challenge the Angels of Death with such paltry weapons. But then he spied something far more dangerous, a warrior who loomed over the rest. He was clad in purple and pink Ceramite and had a pair of obscene horns rising out of his skull. He bore a bolter in his huge gauntlets, fanged with a Daemon maw for a muzzle. It was the most hated of foes, a loathsome Traitor and Heretic, the archenemy of all who pledged to serve Him on Terra. It was a Chaos Marine and he wasn't alone.

Wrethan's hatred soared into a burning crescendo and he snarled, "Traitors approach!"

Zeax barked, "Kill them all!"

Wrethan understood the impulse but knew that range was their advantage and called, "Hold the line! Nobody moves but be ready to fire on my mark."

He paused for a moment as the horde closed into range and then yelled, "Fire!" Instantly the Heavy Bolters erupted into life, hurling rounds deep into the horde at a tremendous rate. Gaudy bodies were blown apart under the hail, spraying clouds of blood into the air. The gunners fired in tight controlled bursts, cutting down scores of cultists in the first few seconds. A moment later there was a flare of light and a shining ball of plasma flew into the packed ranks, it erupted into a blazing inferno and vaporised a half-dozen cultists into ash. One Chaos Marine was caught in the edge of the blast and half his body was melted, ceramite and skin running like wax. He collapsed onto his face, one half of him reduced to a gory puddle the other perfectly preserved.

"So die all Traitors!" Wrethan yelled, holding his Crozius up high but then the foe closed into bolter range. Instantly the rest of the squad let fly with a barrage of mass-reactive shells that smashed into the front rank. The leading edge of the horde simply disintegrated, blown apart by the power of the salvo. Bodies exploded as rounds detonated within them, spraying limbs and viscera high into the air. The horde was painted with the most unspeakable of filth but they came on regardless, grinning with pleasure and opening their mouths wide to drink in the foul rain. Their numbers were beyond counting and they were undaunted by the fury of the Space Marines.

Wrethan was disgusted to see such perversion and he cried over the vox, "Punisher, this is Chaplain Wrethan. The enemy closes in overwhelming numbers; we require an airstrike, danger close!"

The vox crackled, "Chaplain Wrethan this is Punisher. Airstrike is inbound, requesting confirmation of target."

Wrethan snarled, "Target is the large mass of enemies outside the perimeter, be swift and give them hell."

"Confirmed Father," the distant pilot responded with crisp professionalism, "Commencing attack run now."

As the squad thundered away Wrethan's righteous hatred grew, knowing that in seconds the foe would be burnt to ash by fire from on high. He fired his bolt pistol repeatedly and prayed, "Divine Emperor, look upon our fury and know that your work is being done."

From above a speck appeared, diving hard for the deck. It was an angular and blocky form, with a blunt nose and stocky wings from which hung the welcome sight of six Mark17 Incendiary bombs. It was the blessed sight of the Punisher on its attack run, promising death to all it surveyed. Wrethan's heart leapt and he eagerly awaited the coming bombardment, knowing it would burn the foe to ash but at the last second something unexpected happened.

Throughout the horde the various banners flared with multi-hued lights, crackling eldritch fires haloing each of them. The flames built for a single second and then shot upwards, creating a barrage of multi-coloured fireballs. It was eerily reminiscent of a Hydra flak tank firing, an anti-aircraft barrage hurtling skywards with inhuman accuracy.

Punisher was already committed to its run and could not avoid the barrage. The fireballs struck its nose and spilled flames over the cockpit and fuselage. The reinforced Ceramite blackened in the inferno but held true, sadly the same could not be said for the air intakes. Blazing fireballs twisted in mid-air and dove into the engines' spinning fans, blowing them apart and reducing them to slag. Punisher's attack run instantly fell apart; it careened out of control as it dived nose-first into the ground and erupted in a spectacular explosion. Searing flames spewed out in all directions, incinerating hundreds of cultists but not enough to stop the rest, not nearly enough.

Wrethan was aghast at the sight and realised that the horde could not be stopped now. There were too many of them and the Astartes' guns were too few, the enemy could not be stopped from overrunning the perimeter. For a micro-second panic tingled at the back of his skull but then his training and hypno-indoctrination slammed down iron walls of self-control. Imprinted doctrines of war flashed by and the correct course of action presented itself to him. Wrethan shouted, "Brothers, fall back to secondary positions. Withdraw in staggered waves and make sure to cover each other ."

Then he opened his vox to the Company frequency and called, "Captain Toran this is Chaplain Wrethan, we have lost our air support and are about to be overrun. We cannot hold this position for long, requesting urgent reinforcement." Then he turned and withdrew, making sure his pistol had a fresh clip as the horde chased him into the town.


	16. Chapter 16

**Locum Ignotum Chapter 16**

The mob came at them in a screaming multitude, covered in lurid tattoos and shimmering silks. They held ritual knives in their hands and blunt auto pistols that spat fat bullets randomly, not caring whether they hit friend or foe. The mass of cultists cried and yelled in pleasure and pain, overwhelmed by the heady rush of combat, welcoming injury and death as eagerly as they did killing.

Facing them was a line of blue Ceramite, a thin wall of Storm Heralds manning a barricade. They fired over the barrier into the oncoming foe, blasting apart anything they targeted. They were stern and resolute, an unmoving wall of defiance that could not be eroded nor broken. Unfortunately they were also outnumbered a hundred one.

Standing at the barricade Wrethan saw the oncoming mass of flesh and raised his Crozius to meet it. He swung his weapon at a cultist who was leaping the barricade and the golden head flared with power as it made contact. The cultist's chest was collapsed in by the blast of power and his body was flung back into the crowd. The edge of the blast stunned several nearby cultists with its concussive power and left them senseless. Wrethan instantly seized the opportunity and stove in their heads with the butt of his bolt pistol, leaving them to fall dead upon the ground.

In the heartbeat of space he glanced about, seeing the battle unfold all around him. The Storm Heralds had fallen back over and over to prearranged barricade and linked up to form a tight knot of resistance. The Devastators had assumed elevated positions on upturned carts and were firing continuously into the packed ranks of cultists while the Tactical Squad held the line. Bolters roared and a flamer spat burning gouts of Promethium, yet the foe seemed delighted by their wounds, praising their Dark God for the gift of pain. The Storm Heralds were causing staggering casualties yet no matter how many they killed ever more enemies gleefully took their place.

At one end of the line Sergeant Zeax was driving cultists back with great swings of his Thunderhammer, smashing down foes two and three at a time. At the other end, Sergeant Matheus fought with a roaring chainsword and an arcane Grav-pistol, slaughtering droves. Meanwhile Wrethan held the centre, his roaring battle-cries and shining Crozius inspiring the Storm Heralds to ever greater feats of valour. In a normal scenario, Wrethan would have been confident that the Storm Heralds could have held this position indefinitely. Yet the foe they faced was beyond counting and there were more than just cultists here. As if summoned by the thought Wrethan spied a trio of armoured foes approaching, glimmering Ceramite casting disgusting patterns of light all around. Wrethan bellowed, "See the Traitor's approach, the Divine Emperor demands their deaths! "

A sudden distortion surrounded one of the Traitor Marines, the unmistakable product of a Grav-pistol firing. The Chaos Marine's armour crumpled around him, crushing him into a mangled heap but the other two kept on coming. Wrethan moved to intercept and met them blade to blade over the barricade. The first came at him with a long chainsword but Wrethan caught it with his pauldron and the blow did no more than mar the iconography. In return his Crozius descended on a horned helm and smote it into ruin, dashing brains everywhere. However the second Traitor seized the opening to dive in and drive a black dagger into Wrethan's side. Ceramite parted and the Chaplain hissed as he felt potent toxins flow into his bloodstream.

The Traitor giggled and shouted, "Your God is nothing but a corpse!"

Wrethan's anger burned hot, overriding the pain of his wound as he shouted, "And yours are weak, they lost ten millennia ago and they shall lose now!"

With that he swung his Crozius laterally and caught the Traitor under the chin, ripping the head clean off. Wrethan's body burned as his implants cleared the toxins and he roared his triumph but the mob was undaunted and pressed in ever more frantically, seemingly desperate to get in close and taste the thrill of combat.

From one end of the line Matheus called, "We are about to be outflanked!"

Wrethan recognised that this position was no longer tenable and shouted, "Grenades!"

Instantly a flurry of explosives rose up on arcing trajectories, landing far back among the heaving mass of the rabble. A series of detonations shook the ground and the throng eased off for a moment, staggered by the impacts. The Storm Heralds were already withdrawing, falling back to their next line of defence, the spot they had chosen for their next stand.

As they ran Zeax barked, "Where are our damned reinforcements!"

Wrethan replied, "A Stormraven has been dispatched."

"One Stormraven," Zeax spat, "That won't be enough, the odds are too steep."

"Silence your tongue," Wrethan admonished him, squashing the discontent, "We are the Space Marines, we will fight and we will win no matter the odds."

Ahead of them they saw another line of barricades waiting, stretched between two larger buildings. It was the next position they had prepared for their defence and they hastened to jump the line, positioning themselves with practised skill. There was no time to talk for the throng came racing after them, a solid wall of flesh hurling itself at their guns. Needing no orders the defensive line erupted, torrents of firepower cutting down the mob in scores. Heavy Bolters blazed and Plasma shots flared into being, wreaking absolute carnage but the mad cultists came on regardless.

Wrethan saw them pressing forward and bellowed, "Pour it on, hold nothing back!"

The line of Astartes redoubled their efforts, hammering away at the solid wall of enemies but they could not stop them all. Zeax cried, "There's too many of them!"

Wrethan fired his bolt pistol over and over and roared, "Stand fast and have faith, the Stormraven comes, aid is on the way!"

Matheus shouted, "It won't get here in time!"

Wrethan felt the tide of battle shifting against them, recognising the pivotal moment the whole conflict would hinge upon. Everything hung in the balance and he knew that it had to be the Storm Heralds that swung it their way. He raised his voice and cried, "This is the time, this is the hour when the Emperor shall see our true worth! Storm Heralds cannot be broken, we will not be broken, for we know that He is with us!"

Inspired by the Chaplain's words the Storm Heralds dug in and unleashed all that they had, blasting away at the crowds coming at them. Foes were blown apart in the fury on the onslaught, bodies burnt to ash by searing plasma balls but still they came. Bolters glowed red-hot as they spat fury into the rolling masses of flesh while shell-casings fell like rain to pile around their feet. The horizontal blizzard mowed down foes beyond counting but for every one that fell ten more took their place. Pressing on into the face of obliteration and crushing their own dead underfoot the cultists closed, chanting the praises of Slaanesh in their mindless abandon. Wrethan's hated everything about them, he hated them right down to his bones and he swore that if he died here then he would make them pay such a price as to make them weep.

But then Wrethan heard a terrible noise behind him, one every Marine dreaded. It was a screeching whine, accompanied by a terrible hissing noise like venting steam. Wrethan half turned and was aghast to see Brother Tulius, who bore the Plasma cannon, struggling with his armament, desperately trying to prevent an overload. Imperial plasma technology was deadly but poorly misunderstood, prone to overheating and catastrophic explosions if pressed too hard.

"Brothers beware…" Wrethan shouted but before he could complete the warning the cannon overloaded, exploding in a star-bright blaze of burning energy. The detonation was beyond powerful, vaporising Brother Tulius into ash and spraying gouts of burning energy across the line, gouging deeply into their Ceramite plates. A searing fireball exploded outwards in all directions destroying the barricade utterly and incinerating scores of Cultists.

The force of the blast threw Wrethan away, sending him flying through the air to smash down upon his back. His ears rang with the echoes of the blast and the world spun around his head, as he stared at the sky. His implanted organs were already at work restoring his equilibrium but in that one moment he was incapacitated.

He heard the mob roar in triumph and the unmistakable sound of hundreds of feet closing in, their cries of glee shaking the world. Wrethan however wasn't listening, for his eyes were turned upward, fixed upon a small dot diving from the heavens. It was blocky and angular with a squat fuselage and down swept wings, the unmistakable sight of a Stormraven. Wrethan saw the flash of its heavy bolters and turret mounted assault cannons firing and witnessed a stream of tracers flying at his position.

The pilot's accuracy was superb, the rounds impacted all around but not one touched the Storm Heralds. The cultists were blown back by the fusillade, more bodies falling under the barrage. The horde was given a moment's pause, driven back to clear an area but it was nothing save a drop in the ocean. Wrethan knew all too well that one gunship could not turn this tide. Wrethan rose to his feet, gripping his Crozius and preparing to sell his life dearly. Massed enemies surrounded him on all sides and he knew that he could not defeat so many, but swore to die trying regardless. Yet before he could move he realised something bizarre: the Stormraven was not breaking off for another run, instead it was slowing and coming into a hover on vector thrust.

Wrethan was confused, this was a dangerous and improper manoeuvre, leaving the gunship exposed to enemy fire. The only reason to do so would be to deploy troops but an Assault squad should have been able to drop from much higher and use their jump packs to land. For a moment Wrethan dared to wonder if the front ramp would open and spill out Captain Toran and his Command Squad but no such thing happened.

The mob hissed in fury and bunched to rush forward again but the Stormraven wasn't done yet. It spun on the spot, blasting downdraft everywhere. Wrethan was baffled by this insane manoeuvre but it was then that he spotted what was hanging from the gunship's rear manga-grapples. The Chaplain's hearts surged with elation and he raised his Crozius high for all to see as he cried, "Behold Brothers, the Divine Emperor sends salvation from on high!"

With a faint clunk the Magna-grapples disengaged, dropping their cargo right into the heart of the mob. It fell like a dropped brick, straight down without deviation or drift. The massive object smashed into the ground and its impact threw up clouds of dirt and mud, blasting a crater with the force of its landing. There was a humming whir and the grinding of servo-motors as the object unfolded, rising high on a pair of mechanical legs to loom over the massed crowd. A pair of arms came free from its chest, revealing smooth armour plates and a reinforced sarcophagus that stood twice the height of any Astartes.

It was a relic from another epoch, a weapon the likes of which could not be made in this lesser age and the very sight of it brought awe and fear in equal measure. The immense machine took a single step and the mob shrank back, shocked sober by the sight before them, by the Contemptor Dreadnought confronting them. Honourable Ajax looked upon the cowering mob and boomed, "THESE BROTHERS ARE UNDER MY PROTECTION, YOU SHALL NOT LAY YOUR FILTHY HANDS UPON THEM!"

With a thunderous roar Ajax charged forward, weapons blazing. His mass hit the crowd like a wrecking ball, throwing broken bodies aside with contemptuous disdain. None could stand before his wrath and Ajax ploughed through their ranks, smashing aside all resistance. He barrelled into the cultists, knocking foes down and crushing them underfoot without even being slowed down in the slightest. Wrethan saw the carnage Ajax was wreaking and shouted, "With me Brothers! Follow Honourable Ajax, follow him to victory!"

The remaining Astartes roared as they charged in the Dreadnought's wake, but as they ran Zeax called, "Our enemies are still many, we are a long way from victory."

"No, these scum are already dead," Wrethan snarled, "They just don't know it yet."


	17. Chapter 17

**Locum Ignotum Chapter 17**

The streets raged with the sound of battle, the terrible roars and screams of men and women fighting and dying. Amid the wooden buildings, fire and destruction raced freely, setting structures alike and filling the air with black smoke. Thunder rolled across the town, like a mighty storm breaking as death stalked the alleyways, sparing none.

On one side there were hundreds upon hundreds of cultists, screaming in fear and delight as the tide of battle overtook them. Against them strode Ajax, the immense war machine wading through their ranks like a man fording a river. They surrounded him on all sides, clubbing and scoring at his armour with their crude weapons but they did little more than scratch his paint. In return his weapons smote them down in droves, obliterating them with ease.

Running in his wake Chaplain Wrethan was amazed by Ajax's power, by the fury and wrath he brought to the fray. The Storm Heralds chased the Dreadnought with all haste but they could barely keep up with the ancient warrior. They had fought as hard as they could, Wrethan was caked in gore and the ceremonial skulls hanging around his neck were stained by blood. Yet even combined their efforts were dwarfed by the Contemptor's slaughter.

Wrethan saw a knot of cultists charging at the Dreadnought, dozens of them all at once, Ajax however merely drew back his fist and swung it wide. It stuck them like a bulldozer, sending broken and sundered bodies hurtling away in sprays of blood. Wrethan saw a few of them go sailing away over the rooftops, dead already, as their corpses fell like rain on the streets below. Then Ajax did it again and again and again, each blow shattering all before him.

The Dreadnought came to a junction and foes spilled out from both directions, flanking him. Ajax however merely lowered his arms and fired simultaneously in both directions. His Kheres assault cannon hit the foes to the right, mowing them down like wheat before a scythe. Meanwhile to the left his fist's in-built flamer spewed plumes of burning promethium over the packed masses. Cultists fell screaming to the ground, beating at the flames that covered them head to toe.

Wrethan was about to let forth a cry of triumph but then he spied another foe approach. This one was different, one of the thrice-accursed Emperor's Children, clad in shimmering power armour covered in arcane symbols. His left hand was encased in a crackling power fist and from the right side of his exposed head arose a large single horn. He was an Aspiring Champion of Chaos and he was running straight at the Dreadnought.

The Champion raised his Power Fist and yelled, "Your death is ordained by Chaos!"

Ajax faced him as he ran and boomed, "TREACHERY BEGATS VENGEANCE."

Ajax swung his fist to meet the foe but a second before it could make contact the Traitor dove headfirst to the ground, letting it pass over him. He rolled over and then came up right between the Dreadnought's legs. Wrethan gasped in shock as the Champion smashed his fist into Ajax's knee, blasting free a chunk of armour plating and staggering the Dreadnought.

The Champion rose up behind Ajax, power fist flaring with energy but the Dreadnought swung on his gimbal waist and brought the length of his assault cannon around. The multiple barrels caught the Champion in the side and sent him flying, leaving him sprawling in the dirt. Ajax clomped about, a small limp evident where his knee ground on itself but otherwise unimpaired. Meanwhile the Champion flipped back up and screamed, "I shall rip you out of your tomb and Jubila will at last reward me!"

Ajax sneered, "TRY OR NOT AS YOU WILL, EITHER WAY YOU DIE HERE."

The Champion sprang back towards the Contemptor and Ajax made to intercept him. Wrethan saw the Heretic prepare to leap out the way again but this time Ajax was ready. One second before he could dodge the assault cannon blazed and a burst of rounds smashed into the ground before the Champion's feet. The Traitor was momentarily stunned, staggering to one side and slowing down. He was off balance and unable to respond as Ajax lurched forwards and grabbed him around the torso in a mechanical fist. Ajax lifted the Traitor bodily off the ground, leaving his feet to kick the air uselessly. The Champion tried to smash the hand apart with his power fist but the angle was poor and he could do nothing save glance off its thick armour plates.

The Champion looked up into the fierce eyes of Ajax's sensor dome and cried, "For the Dark Gods…"

"GO MAKE YOUR EXCUSES IN PERSON," Ajax snarled and then he activated his fist's disruption field. Arcing energy surged all around the Champion, pouring through him and ripping his body apart cell by cell. The Traitor screamed and thrashed for a moment as a sickening aroma of cooked meat arose, then his skin went black and crumbled away as he roasted to death.

Ajax opened his fist and dropped the charred mess, then he pressed on to continue his rampage. Once more enemies fell before him and the cultists wavered to see the unstoppable war machine bearing down upon them. Wrethan however was distracted, from a small hovel he saw signs of movement and his enhanced hearing picked out cries of distress.

Wary of a flanking action he diverted off to investigate, confident that he could handle whatever was in there. He approached the door and charged through, weapons held ready. What he found inside shocked him to the core, in one corner was a gaggle of mortals, cowering in fear and shielding young children with their bodies. In the other were a pair of Emperor's Children, clad in lurid armour, one with a pair of ritual knives the other bearing a baroque bolter.

Yet it was what was between the two groups that shocked Wrethan, it was Baruch. He was clad in loose robes and in his hands was a blacksmith's hammer while his face bore an expression of anger and defiance. He was putting himself between the Chaos Marines and the civilians, practically unarmed and unarmoured.

Wrethan reacted instantly, his enhanced mind processing the situation in a heartbeat. He threw himself at the nearest Traitor, the one with the ritual knives. The Heretic turned and leapt to meet him and Wrethan was disgusted to see that the right side of his face was covered in multiple eyes, slit like a snake's. The Heretic twisted to meet him, bring both knives up point first as they closed.

Wrethan swung his Crozius wide and the Heretic was forced to duck to avoid the energy field surrounding the golden head, which threw off his own attack. The ritual knives carved across Wrethan's breastplate, leaving furrows in the black veneer but failing to penetrate. Then the pair smashed together in a clash of Ceramite plates, wrestling for leverage.

Wrethan anger grew as he realised that at such close range the foe's knives were better suited than his Crozius. He felt impacts on his back as the Traitor tried to stab him over and over, seeking a weak point in his plate. Wrethan struggled to break free but the Chaos Marine hung on grimly and they staggered back and forth in a struggle for supremacy.

Recognising that he was at a disadvantage Wrethan changed tactics, he twisted his shoulder about to create an inch of space then brought his other hand up. In his fist was the blunt stub of his Bolt pistol and he jammed it right under the Traitor's chin. The Chaos Marine's many eyes widened in shock then his head detonated as a bolt round buried itself within his skull and exploded.

Wrethan felt the weight slide off him as the corpse fell but at that moment there was a trio of flat bangs, the sound of a bolter firing. He spun on his heel and saw the terrible sight of Baruch falling back, his chest ruined and his black carapace shattered by the rounds. Wrethan roared in anger and leapt at the other Chaos Marine but the Heretic was not unprepared.

To Wrethan the warrior seemed to be moving in slow motion as he brought his bolter about with inexorable inertia. The barrel gaped like the maw of a hungry predator and then it fired, spitting rounds at him. Wrethan was in mid-charge when he felt the impacts across his chest, rounds slamming into him. His plate was gouged and torn, craters blasted into its surface and one of the ceremonial skulls hanging around his neck shattered as a round caught it.

It was like being hit by a sledgehammer but despite the ferocity of the attack his blessed power armour held true and not one round penetrated. Wrethan's rage erupted in a roar of frenzied anger and he crashed into the Chaos Marine at full pelt, swinging his Crozius before him. The energy field flared as it made contact and the concussive blast threw the Heretic backwards, making him fall down with his armour blackened and smoking. The Chaplain didn't give him a chance to recover but stamped down on the enemy's neck with an armoured boot, snapping his spine.

Wrethan turned his back on his fallen foes and raced to Baruch who was lying in a pool of blood. His hearts yet beat as his implants fought to stem the damage but one look was enough for Wrethan to see that the wound was fatal. Not even an Astartes could survive such an injury.

Wrethan dove to his side and cried, "Baruch you fool, what are you still doing here?"

Baruch was gasping for air, his ruined lungs filling with blood but he whispered, "They couldn't leave, I had to stay."

Wrethan glared at the civilians cowering in the corner and spat, "You sacrificed yourself for the likes of them?!"

Baruch gasped, "It was my duty."

"You fool," Wrethan sighed shaking his head, "You complete fool."

The Chaplain felt Baruch's pulse slowing and said, "The Emperor calls you to His side, do you wish to absolve your sins first?"

"The dark," Baruch whispered, "I see the dark growing and it makes me afraid."

Wrethan couldn't help but say, "Don't be weak, die proud, not pleading for your life."

Baruch looked up and feebly gripped the Chaplain's arm as he gasped, "Not for my life… I'm pleading… for yours. I see the dark growing in you… the contempt for common people."

"Me?" said Wrethan in confusion.

"If you let your hearts fill with hatred you will come to despise… those you are sworn to protect," Baruch gasped, "That way lies Chaos… Promise me you will remember your duty… your purpose to serve humanity."

Wrethan saw these were Baruch's last moments and lowered his head to say, "I swear it, I swear I will remember. I shall not forget that our duty is to protect the Emperor's people."

"I know… you will", Baruch said with a gurgle of blood in the corner of his mouth, "I claimed not… to desire war anymore… but when the call came I didn't hesitate to pick up a weapon…. It seems Ganaar… was right after all."

Then his head fell back and his hearts stopped beating. Wrethan slowly laid the body down and closed his eyes. The Chaplain stood up and looked at the civilians cowering in the corner, a part of him wanted to hate them for getting Baruch killed but he refused to consider the thought. Baruch had made him swear to protect the likes of them and he would not break his word.

"Come with me," Wrethan said then strode to the entrance. Outside the signs of battle had faded and he stepped out to see the bodies of enemies strewn everywhere. On the street he saw Matheus dispatching wounded foes with his chainsword and the Sergeant saluted when he spied the Chaplain emerge.

"Report," Wrethan said.

"The battle is over," Matheus said, "The foes' will is broken, they flee in all directions. Honourable Ajax is making sure they don't come back."

Wrethan nodded and said, "We have won this battle but the war rages on. I shall summon a Thunderhawk to evacuate us and the survivors."

"Survivors?" Matheus queried.

"Yes, some were left behind," Wrethan said then he paused for a moment before saying, "We must get them to safety… it is our duty."


	18. Chapter 18

**Locum Ignotum Chapter 18**

Under the contoured sky there was a hill, a bleak and barren peak made of mud and loose stone. It was little more than a ridge in the earth, with no remarkable features but it was about to become the site around which destiny would pivot. Standing upon that hill was Jubila, impatiently waiting for events to unfold. With him were hundreds of his loyal cultists and a score of Chaos Marines, his most favoured Chosen. They had gathered here for the culmination of their efforts, their campaign to break this land open and claim it for themselves.

Jubila tapped his boot impatiently and said, "This had better work."

"It will work," the Sorcerer Rebis said in masculine tones but then in feminine voice continued, "The walls have been weakened, a rift will soon form."

Jubila watched on as Rebis went back to his ritual, chanting and carving strange symbols into the dirt. Jubila had ordered Rebis to open a doorway to the Warp, a rift that would allow him to summon Daemons into this land. It had taken a monotonously long time to break enough Menhirs to allow this to work but at last the desired result was within their grasp.

From behind, Jubila heard the voice of Salmacis say, "This is taking too long."

The warlord glanced over and said, "It will be worth it, the delights that will come to us shall make it all worthwhile."

From the other side of him Baeghost was loudly chewing the marrow from a human thigh bone but still grumbled, "It better had, there has been strong resistance."

Jubila cocked his head and said, "Yes, who would have expected lickspittles of the Throne to be here. Still it doesn't matter, they can't stop us now."

Salmacis muttered, "They have slaughtered our cultists, they repulsed our main thrust from a miniscule town. The survivors are still weeping of a giant metal monster, breaking them utterly."

Jubila snorted and said, "I care nothing for those worthless wretches, let them die if it slows down the Storm Heralds."

Baeghost swallowed his chew toy and said, "Storm who?"

"A bunch of complete nobodies," Jubila answered dismissively, "I recognised their colours as they flew overhead. I was part of the great slaughter of their Fortress-Monastery some time ago… I think I still have one of their helms on a banner pole somewhere or other."

In the crowd behind Jubila one of the Chosen whispered to a comrade, "Some slaughter, he cut and run as soon as the going got tough." Jubila's head didn't move an inch but instantly his Charnabal sabre was in his hand and sweeping laterally about. It neatly severed the Chosen's head clean off his shoulders before he even saw it coming, the silver blade ending his life in one stroke. Jubila didn't even bother to look at the falling corpse, merely returning his blade to its scabbard as he said, "Now as I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted, once we have our allies with us we can take this place for our own. It will become a floating Palace of Slaanesh, a base of operations for us to reave across reality itself."

Baeghost ignored the cooling corpse at their feet and rumbled, "What of Abaddon?"

Jubila sneered, "What of him?"

Baeghost dared to say, "The Despoiler will want a piece of this place when he hears of it, he always expects his due."

"I don't answer to him," Jubila laughed, "He's thrown everything he has at Cadia and lost most of it in the process. He is a spent force; it will take him at least a century to claw back a semblance of his power."

Abruptly Rebis stiffened and paused in his preparations as he hissed, "The Sacrifice!"

Jubila waved a cultist forward whom pulled a struggling lad, who was bound hand and foot, then forced him to his knees. He had been captured in the recent raids and brought here unmarked. Rebis pulled a black dagger from his belt and loomed over the captive, terrifying in his mad intent. Long seconds passed and then Rebis moved, stabbing the dagger right into the throat of the cultist holding the lad down.

Jubila laughed at the betrayal, "Ha, there's a reason that one is a classic."

The cultist grabbed at his neck but was too late as his lifeblood flowed freely. The man toppled over but his blood stayed in mid-air hanging impossibly in a diffuse cloud. Rebis spat a strange string of words and the blood began to spin, describing a large circle in the air, one that grew darker and darker. The golden radiance faded around them and the world fell into a dim gloom as a portal began to open, a doorway into another realm.

Rebis slammed his staff down and the portal cracked open, tearing a black rift into reality itself. The rift bulged and rippled like a sheet in the wind and strange multi-coloured hues swam in its depths. Jubila watched with glee as the colours grew more intense, knowing that he was staring into the warp and something in there was staring back at him. Jubila raised his arms and cried, "Come to me, children of Slaanesh, come and feed on our offerings!"

The colours surged forward and then from out of the crackling infinity came a blob of colour, a lurid hue that moved like oil upon water. It crossed the threshold of the rift and fell down, landing upon the ground with a squelch. The blob heaved and pulsed, quivering like a living thing as it tried to move under the unaccustomed weight of gravity. Jubila watched intently as the blob contracted and hardened, compressed by the hateful pressure of reality into a solid mass.

Jubila was familiar with the nature of the Neverborn and he recognised that before him was a lesser Daemon of Slaanesh, a Bringer of Joyous Degradation and a Seeker of Decadence: a Daemonette. He knew such entities were the most numerous of the Dark Prince's Legions, messengers and servants sent to do his bidding. They had little to no sentience of their own, being an expression of feral desire, but they possessed a low cunning that could easily be mistaken for intelligence. Above all they excelled at finding a man's finding desires, bringing their most depraved and burning ambitions to the fore.

The Neverborn before him seemed to be having trouble adapting to reality, struggling to construct a physical vessel out of the raw elements around it. Jubila watched with interest as it flowed and bulged, becoming a variety of shapes, first it was a spiked wheel, then a thorn, then a cup of poison and then a spiked lash. On and on the shapes came, changing from moment to moment as the entity tried to match its nature to a form that suited. Jubila saw in one moment a purple feline and in the next a gaping maw with long fangs and then a snake with the face of a dog. The Daemon adopting a myriad of forms as it tried to adapt to the unfamiliar sensation of being real.

Suddenly the entity stilled as it found a shape that seemed right, a form that best expressed its nature. Jubila looked upon the form the Daemonette had chosen and was delighted. Before him stood a lithe feminine creature, with silky skin and perfect thighs and a dainty pouting face, all wrapped in a ribbed corset. It was a vision to make a man's heart beat faster but that alluring appearance was but a cover for something truly foul.

Once one saw past the glamour the abomination became clear, for it hid a vile countenance. Its legs were human to begin with but at the knees they twisted backwards like an animal and its feet were splayed claws with wicked talons. Between its legs hung a long tail that moved like a snake while its left hand was deformed hook and the right a massive crab-like pincer, with serrated edges that glistened with poisons. Its head bore twisted horns arising from its skull, which swept behind it like a veil in the wind.

Worse of all was its face, for there was not a trace of humanity there. All its features were filled with a bestial hunger, a craving for unspeakable atrocity and a yearning to drink deeply on suffering and pain. To look into its eyes was to lose one's soul and any mortal so foolish would have screamed in horror and desire, knowing they could never forget the sight. Cultists all around gasped in wondrous amazement and disgust as Jubila smiled widely and leaned in saying, "Well, hello my pretty."

The Daemonette spun on the spot, moving like a poorly edited pict-film. One instant it was several feet away from the Warlord and the next it was at Jubila's throat, its massive claw wrapped around his gorget. It hissed in challenge and extended a forked tongue from its mouth, waving it in front of his face to drink in his terror.

Jubila however was not afraid, his smile widened even more and he nestled his neck into the claw, letting the tongue lick his face. He breathed in its musk and said, "So my sweet, you have come to take me away from this dull existence. Are you here to show me the ultimate experience that waits beyond death?"

The Daemonette blinked in confusion, its simple mentality struggling to cope with the situation. It was an entity made from raw emotion and passion, it needed terror and suffering to feast upon, it needed its victims to be tormented. This loving embrace and openness was loathsome to its nature, it wanted anguish, not this unconditional acceptance. The Daemonette let go and staggered back, uncertain as to what was happening. Jubila cocked a hairless eyebrow and said, "Alas not today, oh well, there are other amusements to be found. Look all around, a feast awaits your kind."

The Daemonette didn't speak any language of man but it could read intent like a book. Its head shifted to the horizon and it looked like it was sniffing the air like a hound. Suddenly it tensed as it scented a bounty of souls just waiting to be feasted upon. In one great leap it bounded forward and fell upon the nearest cultist, eviscerating the man with a sweep of its claws. The deranged worshipper screamed in horror and ecstasy as he died and the Daemonette swept on. It killed any mortal in reach but ignored the Chaos Marines, their souls already too mired in Chaos to be of any interest to it.

From behind Jubila, Rebis said in masculine tones, "That was but the first, a whole army comes after."

Then in a feminine tone continued, "You might want to stand back a bit."

Jubila backed off as the rift expanded, climbing high over their heads and spreading out ever wider. The unearthly hues rippled again as another entity came through, this time adapting much faster than its kin. It took on the form of a small simian with large black wings and leapt into the sky, instantly flying to join the slaughter. The next Neverborn became a two-legged steed with a sphincter-like mouth which galloped into the fray and the one after that became a chariot covered in barbs.

On and on they came, growing in number as their rate of emergence increased. Their forms and shapes becoming ever more varied and Jubila delighted to see such a plethora of designs, each one abhorrent and alluring in equal measure. They filled the land all around the rift and darkened the skies, crooning and cawing in an animalistic feeding frenzy as they tore the cultists apart. In only a couple of minutes they had exhausted the supply of mortal worshippers and spread out further, seeking more souls to feast upon. Jubila watched as the Daemonic army poured out of the rift and laughed loudly, "The time has come; this land is ours for the taking!"

Behind him Baeghost rumbled, "What of the Storm Heralds?"

Jubila grinned and said, "What do they have that can stand against this? Our victory is assured."

Salmacis dared to say, "I wouldn't underestimate them, the Throne's lickspittles are blinkered fools but they are annoyingly tenacious."

"Good," Jubila declared as he watched the Daemons fly free in all directions, "If they make a fight of it that will only add to the fun. Come quickly, we must keep up. I don't want to miss all the excitement."


	19. Chapter 19

**Locum Ignotum Chapter 19**

All across the land the golden light wavered, the eternal radiance dimming and stuttering like a malfunctioning lumen orb. For the first time shadows crept in, edging everything with a sinister countenance and heralding the end of all things. On the edge of civilisation a black cloud arose, a shifting mass of unworldly forms so dense that they blotted out the sky above. It swept over the land like an oil spill, covering everything and leaving nothing untouched.

The mass of horrors fell upon any it could find, those who had refused to evacuate or been too isolated to reach. Mercurial Daemons raced to find the rich scent of lifeblood and feast upon the souls of innocents. Farmers screamed as winged monsters fell upon them from the sky and families wept as clawed monstrosities kicked in their doors to drag them away to fates worse than death. None were spared from the darkness, nobody could hide or run from this and the slaughter was universal and complete. Ten thousand souls fell and it had been less than an hour since the first Daemon had set foot upon this land.

Even those furthest away felt the touch of dread creeping into their hearts, men and women looking to the sky with an unnameable terror. None of them understood the scale of the threat, the depth of the nightmare coming to feast upon their souls but all feared it. There was only one who understood what was happening and he was currently staggering through the streets, lurching along in his armour like a drunk.

As people ran fearfully past Librarian Arvael gripping onto a wall for support. He was a terrible sight to behold, his face running with sweat and a look of nausea screwing up his features. Arvael had been returning from a strike when the invisible tide of corruption washed over him, drowning him in its rancid filth. Arvael grimaced and forced a glut of vomit back down his throat as he staggered over to the next building, feeling like he was going to die. It was impossible for a non-psyker to understand his plight, the battle raging within his soul. For months now Arvael had enjoyed the peaceful and calm flow of empathic power this land created, like the purest mineral water on his tongue. But then some idiot had punched a hole in the walls and the rancid energies of the raw warp now flowed unfettered.

Arvael could felt the fetid energy wash over him, staining his psyche and battering at his mental walls. It was vile and reeking, the slightest touch leaving one shuddering in revulsion and disgust. It was like drinking engine oil, like being thrown into a river of stinking effluence and left to drown. The sheer shock of it had nearly broken his sanity but his training in the Librarius had taught him to fend it off, to hold it at bay and draw upon only the most miniscule drops of power.

Arvael recited litanies of abjuration as he wobbled along, closing off his mind and sealing his connection to the Warp with unbreakable psychic locks. The stinking reek of corruption faded to a dull stench but before it did so Arvael heard the chittering of immaterial voices and knew the truth: Daemons walked free here. Arvael shuddered at the very thought and knew that the situation had changed; this was no lone Neverborn but a full blown incursion. A tide of ethereal nightmares walked like men and nothing would stop them, absolutely nothing.

Arvael hurriedly opened his vox and called, "Captain Toran, this is Librarian Arvael, come in."

The vox crackled and a voice returned, "Arvael, thank the throne! I'm getting reports of a counterattack on all fronts, what the Feth is going on?"

Arvael replied, "Captain, you must pull the Company back to the shadow of the Thunderchild, pull them back now!"

"What?!" Toran barked, "The evacuation has barely begun, we have got less than one in ten of the population to safety. There hundreds of thousands of innocents still out there, if we withdraw we leave them to die."

"Captain," Arvael uttered, "The enemy has summoned a host of Daemons, its too late to stop them, they are already here."

There was a long pause at the other end of the line and then in a grim tone Toran replied, "Understood, Third Company is falling back to a defensible position now."

"Make haste," Arvael said, "I must seek wiser council."

Arvael cut off the link and moved on, some strength returning to his stride. He was greatly concerned by these events, more so than he had told Captain Toran. Arvael was acutely aware of the tension being placed upon the structure of this land, on the empathetic matrix that held it together. The whole fabric of this place was rolling and heaving around them and it defied belief that its creators would not notice.

Above all Arvael dreaded the Old Ones being stirred to action. Their power surpassed belief and there was nothing he could do to stop them should they move. The intelligence he had felt in the pit had been utterly alien, incomprehensible to him and foreign in nature. A human mind would have at least been predictable but he had no way to know how the Old Ones would react, what they would do. The only certainty was that they would respond, which was why he desperately needed to talk to Samandriel.

Finally Arvael spied the doors to the local archive and hastened to them. He pushing his way inside without pause, yet he was brought up short when he saw what awaited him. Across the bare floor was laid out a pile of bodies, men, women and children scattered everywhere, each one with their throats torn out and strewn about wherever they had happened to fall. The bodies all bore similar wounds yet there was a surprisingly small amount of blood to be seen. The work of a Daemon, Arvael concluded.

Arvael saw instantly that they had come here seeking sanctuary but been met by a monster. He pulled free his Force-Morningstar and stepped to one side, warily probing the darkness of the hall. He opened his mind a fraction and scanned ahead, seeking the spoor of a Daemon but found no traces at all. Yet he did find a single living soul, with two hearts, it seemed Samandriel had survived the attack. Arvael quickly moved towards where he detected his cousin's life-force and called, "Samandriel?"

From the shadows a voice arose, "I know you're there but I need it, I need it all."

"Samandriel?" Arvael repeated cautiously but words failed him when he saw what was lurking there.

Samandriel was crouched over a pile of bodies, naked and hunched over like some macabre vulture. He gripped a cooling body in his hands, with its throat torn out, one more among dozens. Samandriel's chin was covered in gore, a trail of blood so thick that it was practically black and his eyes burned with the intensity of the truly insane. Samandriel's mad eyes fixed upon Arvael and his mouth opened, revealing long fangs jutting from his gums as he hissed, "Blood… must have blood!"

Arvael was shocked into stillness and in that moment Samandriel pounced, surging at him like a great predator. Arvael didn't even have time to respond as a great weight slammed into him and a hand swung at his face. Black nails extended out wards like claws and tore his brow, spilling rich transhuman blood into his eyes. Arvael instinctively fell back, blinking to clear the blood from his eyes but another blow rocked him as Samandriel chased him. The Librarian desperately drew upon the Warp and formed a wave of telekinetic power, throwing his opponent away. Arvael saw his cousin hit the floor but Samandriel instantly roll back to his feet, crouching low like a spider.

Arvael kept a Kine shield up before him and circled right as he said, "Samandriel, you're possessed. The power, you weren't expecting it, it caught you off guard. Something's got into your mind; you have to cast it out!"

However Samandriel hissed, "Your words mean nothing Horus, I saw the way open and I have come for your head. You shall not harm our Father."

Arvael was confused by that, Samandriel didn't seem to know where he was. What sort of madness was gripping him? Before he could work it out Samandriel leapt, smashing into the Kine shield. The madman crashed right through it, a feat that must have caused him depthless pain but he seemed not to feel it. Arvael lashed out with his weapon but the blow rolled off Samandriel as if it was nothing, it was like he could feel no pain.

Arvael felt fists battering at his armour and struggled to fight back, hitting out with knees and elbows but making no impression. In return Samandriel fought like a berserker, holding nothing back as he battered at the ceramite armour. Arvael had no doubt that his plate was the only thing keeping him alive and without it he would already be dead. Arvael reached out with his telekinesis and grabbed a foot-long shard of wood with his mind. He levitated it and then hurled it at Samandriel's back, plunging it in like a knife. The madman at last felt something and howled as he lurched back. He reached behind him and pulled out the shard, snarling, "Your legions may batter at the walls of the Palace, traitor but I am undaunted. The way is open and I am free."

Arvael gathered his power and charged forward; swinging his Morningstar and Samandriel met him head on. They met in a thunderous crash, exchanging blows faster than a mortal eye could follow. Arvael was armoured and armed but Samandriel was inhumanly strong and ferocious. In moments Arvael had been overpowered, thrown to the floor as Samandriel stood over him snarling, "I shall present Rogal with your head on a pike."

Arvael looked up at his cousin and saw no trace of the noble sage he had known. For a moment Arvael brushed the madman's mind with his own and was shocked by what he found there. Samandriel's mind was lost in a sea of black rage, twinned with a terrible thirst for blood, but neither was foreign to him. This madness came from within, not without. It was born from his gene-seed, as intrinsic to him as his enhanced muscles. This had always been within Samandriel, just waiting to be let out.

Arvael looked up at his fallen kin and knew there was no hope of recovery here; Samandriel was truly cursed, utterly lost in his insanity. With grim resolution the librarian opened his mental locks and drew upon his power, forming it into a razor-sharp blade of thought. This was far draining than foccussing his power through a weapon but it was all he had left. Samandriel was leaning down; opening his mouth to reveal his fangs but Arvael was ready and with a cry of defiance drove the telekinetic blade upwards. Arvael felt muscles and bone part before his telekinetic blade and he pushed harder, penetrating the thick ribcage. He focussed his will and his unyielding resolution as he thrust ever deeper and drove the blade right into Samandriel's twin hearts.

The organs quivered under the force as Arvael twisted his thoughts, ripping the hearts apart from the inside out. Samandriel froze in shock as he felt his life being cut off and he swayed drunkenly for a momen, then he toppled like a great tree. Life faded from his eyes and he hissed one last time, "The way is open…"

Silence fell and Arvael flopped back, exhausted and sickened in equal measure. His blood poured from his wounds, even as his Larraman cells fought to stem the tide. He was shocked and appalled by what he had seen, by the glimpse of the curse locked within Samandriel's genes. Had the warrior known this was within him, Arvael wondered, had he been fighting to suppress it all along or had it struck out of nowhere? Slowly Arvael forced himself to his feet and stepped back, then he walked away. He had no words for what had just happened and needed time to process it, he couldn't even look at the bodies all around, so sickened was he. He was half-way to the door when he froze, remembering Samandriel's last words and their meaning hit him, Arvael gasped, "The way is open!"

Then he was running out of the doors desperately trying his vox. He had to reach Captain Toran and tell him: Chaos had opened a door but doors swung two ways. If Chaos could get in then they could get out.


	20. Chapter 20

**Locum Ignotum Chapter 20**

The land around the great pit heaved with people, a teeming mass of fearful and desperate civilians. There were tens of the thousands of refugees, huddling together in rude tents as mothers tried to keep young children from crying and men talked angrily together. These people didn't understand what was going on, they had been ripped from their homes only a day before and now had been left here. Anger was growing among them and tensions were high.

Amid that throng Bylan was walking, proudly carrying the great weight of the Company Standard. With him were Captain Toran and the rest of the command squad, Furion, Jediah, Novak and Persion. They were touring the camp to reassure people with their presence. There was one other present, Ganaar, who had tagged along. Bylan wasn't quite sure why the outsider was here but the Space Wolf seemed to operate on the principle that if he acted like he had every right to go wherever he pleased, then people would assume he actually had the right to be there. Oddly enough it generally seemed to work out for him.

Furion was looking over the refugees and remarked, "This is going to turn ugly, this situation is a powder keg, just waiting to blow up."

Toran said, "It had to be done, we can't protect the entire front, we barely have enough Marines to hold the perimeter around this camp."

Persion commented, "We have fifty thousand refugees here, all scared and upset. It's only a matter of time until someone does something stupid."

Toran said, "The sight of us should quell dissent but I am bringing down serf-provosts from the Thunderchild to police this site."

Bylan glanced up at the immense bulk of the Thunderchild, hanging a mile over their heads. It was truly immense, a leviathan stretching as far as the eye could see. Impossibly it was sitting in mid-air, still attached to the docking tower, its immense guns sticking out into the sky. He drew in a breath and said, "+Captain, are we sure the Thunderchild can't be used? Her weapons are in a league of their own+"

Toran replied, "Not the main guns but the secondary turrets may prove useful. The anti-strike craft guns will provide suppressing fire when the enemy gets here."

Jediah inquired, "What do we know of the foe?"

Toran answered grimly, "We have lost all servo-skull surveillance but what we saw was a walking nightmare. The foe's numbers are beyond counting, they sweep the land from end to end. Their nature though is far more disturbing, Arvael was right, Daemons have come."

"Maleficarum," Ganaar spat in disgust, "We were having such a good war, my axe thirsts for more."

Toran stated, "I suspect you will have your fill when they get here."

Bylan frowned and said, "+Why haven't they come yet?+"

Toran was brutal in his assessment, "Because they know we have nowhere to run to, they can finish us off whenever they please. We have Third Company holding the perimeter but we can't last long against what's coming. We will hold the line to the last man but make no mistake, this is our last stand."

Everybody was sobered by that, Bylan in particular had never seen the Captain so dour, so defeated. Yet Ganaar spat, "Better to die on our feet than on our knees."

Bylan looked out over the camp and saw the dirty packed mass of humanity, the fearful crowds of innocents. He knew that the Storm Heralds would fight to protect them but he could not avoid the fact that these people were all going to die. This tour of the camp was nothing but a show; they had no real hope to offer these people. Then he spied something out of place and said, "+What is that?+"

Ahead of them was a small crowd of people surrounding a trio of warriors. One was the unmistakeable sight of Chaplain Wrethan, standing straight with his Crozius in hand. Knelt before him were two more warriors, but these ones were in unadorned Mark II armour and they had their heads bowed. As the Command squad approached Wrethan made a benediction and touched his Crozius to each of their shoulder pads, then they stood up.

Bylan was shocked to see the faces of Maxivus and Leanyr, both solemn and grim in aspect. Maxivus held a thin power sword of an ancient design in hand and Leanyr gripped a huge heavy weapon in two hands, a type that Bylan didn't recognise. They approached swiftly and Toran called, "Father Wrethan, what is this?"

"Let me explain," Maxivus said stepping forward, "We have asked to join your campaign and the good Chaplain was gracious enough to hear our Oaths of Moment."

Ganaar stepped forward and barked, "I knew you two couldn't keep away! The horns of battle are calling and the old warhounds can't help but lift their heads, one last time."

Bylan was puzzled and said, "+What of Baruch, he opposed this+"

"Baruch is dead," Leanyr said, "In peace he was wise but that time has passed. We honour his memory but we can no longer stand aside."

Everybody bowed their heads at that, for the news of Baruch's death had been grim tidings. He had seemed larger than life, even with his odd views and would be sorely missed. Ganaar let the silence stretch out for a moment then he looked at Leanyr and the strange device as he said, "I would be proud to fight alongside you once more but tell me one thing, where the hell did you find a Volkite Culverin?"

Leanyr hefted the weapon and said, "I didn't find it anywhere, I made it."

"+You made it?+" Bylan said in surprise for such relics were rare indeed, the whole Storm Heralds Chapter could not boast a single example.

"Did you really think I was content building irrigation systems," Leanyr snorted, "Took me centuries to steal enough parts off passing wrecks to make it."

"Ha," Ganaar laughed as he slapped Leanyr on the pauldron and proclaimed, "I knew there was a reason I liked you!"

At that moment there was a cry and Bylan turned to see the unmistakeable sight of Arvael. He looked a mess, battered and bruised and he was running as fast as the mingling crowds would allow him to. Arvael approached and cried, "Captain, there you are. I've been looking for you; I think my vox is broken."

Toran frowned and asked, "Arvael, where have you been?"

Arvael sagged and said, "I was attacked by Samandriel."

"What?!" spat Maxivus in a furious tone, "You lie!"

"No, the Warp corrupted him, it turned him mad," Arvael explained, "He killed civilians and then tried to kill me."

"Where is he now?" Leanyr spat.

"Dead," Arvael answered, "I was forced to kill him."

Leanyr's fist suddenly shot towards Arvael's face but it was intercepted by Ganaar's hand. He caught the blow and threw it back saying, "I smell the truth on this one, Samandriel was indeed taken by Maleficarum. He would not have wanted to live as a monster, I would have done the same in the Wyrd's place, as would you."

Leanyr settled back resentfully but Maxivus lowered his head and said, "The IXth Legion will be poorer without him, songs of lament will be sung on Baal."

Bylan spotted Persion looking perplexed and said, "+What is it?+"

Persion blinked and said, "Nothing, I thought Samandriel was a Dark Angel not a Blood Angel. I was wrong."

For some reason both their eyes slid over to Novak, expecting a glib remark, but he was surprisingly silent. Not even the impudent Champion could make jokes at the expense of the dead. Arvael however shook his head and said, "There is no time for this, we have to get the Company together, we have to go right now. The way is open but it won't stay stable for long, we have to take the chance."

"Slow down," Toran said, "You're making no sense, start at the beginning. What are you talking about?"

Arvael drew in a breath and explained, "Captain, the only way that Chaos could get in here is to open a door but doors swing both ways. There's an active portal, one we can use to escape this place."

Bylan was stunned by that proclamation and said, "+A portal, to where?+"

"To the Warp itself," Arvael answered.

Stunned silence greeted that as jaws dropped and then Leanyr said, "You seriously want to traverse a portal directly into the Warp?"

"Great," muttered Novak besides them, "Out of the frying pan into the maws of a million, billion hungry Daemons."

Maxivus scowled and said, "Nobody could survive that."

"We could if we had a Gellar field," Arvael stated, "If we travelled inside the Thunderchild."

"+Let me get this straight,+" Bylan said in complete shock, "+The enemy has opened a portal into the depths of the Warp, a passageway into the heart of Chaos itself and your plan is to ride a starship into it?+"

"Ha, your breed is insane!" Ganaar cried loudly, "Guilliman's head would have exploded at the mere suggestion. I love this plan!"

Suddenly a grumble broke in, it was Chaplain Wrethan and he growled, "The plan is flawed, what of the refugees?"

Bylan was surprised he would bother to ask but Toran nodded and said, "He's right, we can't abandon these people, we have to take them with us."

Arvael replied warily, "I'm not sure there's enough time."

"Then we shall make the time," Wrethan growled, "We cannot abandon our duty to them."

Arvael looked doubtful and said, "With all due respect I'm not sure we can wait for the time it will take to load them all."

Persion looked up and said, "That's a vertical mile to climb and we have one docking tower. There are elders and children here; loading them will take weeks."

Leanyr contradicted him, "Not if you use Servitor driven cargo-pallets in the tower and directed shuttle flights. I calculate that if you use every gunship and lighter you have, you could load these people in a day."

Bylan frowned and said, "+How can you be so sure?+"

"Basic logistics," Leanyr replied confidently, "I've spent centuries organising undertakings like this."

Bylan dared to say, "+But can we even fit that many people on board?+"

Furion answered, "It's not a question of space but having enough air to breathe. Our life support resources are not infinite and this will tax them to the limit. Fifty thousand people shall place a great strain upon the Machine Spirits."

Maxivus spoke up to say, "What of the people beyond the perimeter, there are four hundred and fifty thousand more souls out there."

"Not anymore," Arvael answered forlornly, "Anybody not inside our perimeter is already dead."

Yet Wrethan was intractable and stated, "Then we shall protect the people we still have. To abandon them is to forsake our oaths to the Divine Emperor, they are His flock and we are their guardians. If we must hold the enemy back to buy them time then that is what we shall do, even if it costs every drop of our lifeblood."

Bylan was shocked to hear such words from the cantankerous Wrethan, his time here seemed to have changed him. However Toran overrode everybody to say, "Enough discussion, the decision is made: we are evacuating and taking the civilians with us. Leanyr, Maxivus, Ganaar you're in charge of the camp and I hereby give you full authority to order our serfs about. Use anything and everything you can to get these people on-board."

Bylan was proud to see the return of the decisive and energetic Captain he so admired and he was sure Toran would make this fantasy a reality. However Jediah said, "The enemy will not sit idly by while we load passengers. They will come in full force and seek to end us."

Toran nodded and said, "Then we must delay them, I will draw the Company together and tell them we need to hold the line for another day."

"One more day, for the Emperor," Wrethan proclaimed, "One more day, for the honour of the Storm Heralds."

Bylan lifted the Standard proudly, feeling the call to righteous battle surge through him. He had never been prouder to stand among such heroes and was sure that with Captain Toran to lead them they would triumph once more. As they marched to war Bylan swore that he would fly the Standard high for all to see, no matter what was coming for them.


	21. Chapter 21

**Locum Ignotum Chapter 21**

The last of the foes took to the skies, seeking to flee with their tails between their legs. They were chased by focussed salvos of firepower, blasting their winged bodies into chunks of gore. The effect upon this foe was curiously muted, as if ranged weaponry was less effective upon Daemonkind, but that could be compensated for if one applied enough of it. There were few problems in life that could not be solved with the proper application of high explosive projectiles.

Bylan thought upon this as he looked about, seeing fallen Daemons all around. Their broken bodies were already starting to dissolve, steaming as their physical forms were abandoned by the ethereal nightmare within. Bylan couldn't help but notice that there was something wrong with their anatomy, they had muscles and guts and organs but none of them was correctly sized or positioned. It was like someone had tried to draw out a body after skimming through a medical data-slate. Bylan strongly suspected the innards had little real function and the bodies were motivated by Daemonic power.

Bylan was stood in the heart of Third Company, among the greatest of heroes. To his sides were the Command Squad along with Captain Toran and Librarian Arvael. Over to the far right was Chaplain Wrethan, holding the right flank and to the far left was Honourable Ajax, whose weapons were steaming with heat from excessive use. Bylan held the Company Standard in one hand and a bolt pistol in the other, he kept the banner high for all to see as he proclaimed, "+We did it!+"

"This was nothing, a mere probing thrust, we haven't even begun to fight yet," came the voice of Arvael, "We have only been brushed by the merest edge of the Daemonic horde, when the real attack comes you will know it."

Bylan felt disappointment tinge his thoughts, for the fighting so far had been far from one-sided. This open ground was poor defensive country and the Codex would advise them to fall back to a better location with haste but unfortunately they had to hold this position or the refugee camp would be helpless. The Daemons had come with great swiftness and hunger, falling upon Third Company with claw and tooth. They had been fighting for hours already and casualties were mounting, noble Brothers being torn apart in the frenzy of combat. Third Company had acquitted itself well but the damage was mounting.

Captain Toran was redressing the ranks and said, "Take this time to inspect your gear and replenish supplies, we won't have long till they come again." Bylan turned and saw a line of Servitors dragging pallets of munitions and ordnance up to the front line. They were coming from the Thunderchild, a desperately needed supply run as Third Company was burning through ammunition at a furious rate.

All around Initiates were grabbing Bolter magazines and flamer canisters, missiles and grenades, plasma chambers and melta flasks. There were also heavy weapons for the Predator tanks, Whirlwind artillery, Hunter pattern mobile-SAMs and Stalker flak tanks. Everything that could be deployed to the field had been deployed and it was still barely enough.

Bylan's took a pair of clips for his bolt pistol and as he did so his eyes slid over the line to the distant refugee camp. It was a hive of activity, crowds of people gathered around the base of the docking tower while a constant stream of evacuation flights came and went, ferrying innocents away. Arvus lighters, cargo-lifters, Aquila landers, even the revered forms of Stormravens and Thunderhawks, all pressed into service to hasten the evacuation. It was remarkable how quickly Leanyr had managed to organise this, sorting people out into manageable lines and setting up a system to move them all.

High above sat the Thunderchild, the last bastion of resistance this land had to offer. Its immense hull looked impenetrable and its guns were firing constantly, creating a barrage of deafening noise. Shells were soaring miles away to harry the distant Daemonic host and that was merely the secondary defence turrets. It was largely thanks to the Thunderchild that the higher altitudes were denied to the enemy, forcing them to come at low-level and thus face Third Company. Bylan dearly wished they could bring the Macrocanons to bear, but starship weapons were designed to engage targets ten thousand miles away. The collateral damage would be incalculable and at this range they would leave nothing behind save ash.

Bylan calculated that barely half the refugees had been loaded and they still had hours to go yet. He swallowed, causing his augmetic lungs to buzz and said, "+How much longer can we hold?+"

Toran answered firmly, "As long as is necessary."

Bylan was heartened to hear the confidence in his voice but he knew the scale of the task before them. The Daemon host was closing and each of them was a match for a Space Marine in combat. The odds were against them yet nothing in the galaxy could match the resolution and zeal of an Astartes, they would stand till the last man if required and nothing would move them from this spot. Bylan would be here no matter what, holding the Standard aloft and inspiring these heroes to ever greater feats of valour.

Suddenly there was a cry from Arvael, he put his hand to his head and grimaced as he declared, "They come!" Bylan twisted his head and saw a rolling mass of darkness on the horizon, a shimmering cloud headed right at them. On black wings simian monsters swooped and soared while beneath them raced long-legged beasts, bladed chariots and lithe feminine warriors with crab-like claws. Some were more bestial than others, resembling ten-foot high arachnids with gnashing teeth, octopuses with eyes all over them and snakes covered in feathers.

The mere sight of such a Daemonic abomination would have left mortals gibbering in insanity; they would have collapsed in horror as they minds shattered but the Space Marines felt only hatred. This was the enemy of all that good and pure, the nemesis of the human race and the adversary of the Emperor. Astartes' minds were tempered and honed, conditioned by centuries of Hypno-indoctrination and training to leave them with only one possible response: an indomitable compulsion to face these foes and crush them utterly.

Bylan heard Captain Toran lift his voice and call, "Company: present arms. Whirlwinds, Predators and other artillery fire as they come into range. Devastators and Heavy troops, this foe is resistant to ranged weapons, make sure to concentrate your fire. Tacticals hold the line and expect close combat. Assault squads will form a mobile reserve to counter a breakthrough. Chaplain Wrethan, keep the right flank secure and Ajax hold the left, let nothing flank us."

The Contemptor growled over the vox, "NONE SHALL PASS."

Bylan gripped the Standard tighter as the foe closed and then Wrethan's voice lifted over the vox, reassuring the Initiates and firing their zeal to the pinnacle of fury, "Brothers, the foe comes with black intent and sharp claws. They expect an easy victory, they expect to break us in one blow but they know not that which they face! We are the Emperor's chosen; we are the line that does not bend. Our bolters bring light to the darkness and our courage is the hurricane that shall shatter this foe to pieces! We are fire and we are doom, we are the tempest and the lightning! We are the Emperor's storm!"

As one the entire Company lifted their voice to shout in defiance, "We are His wrath!"

At that the line erupted in a blitzkrieg of firepower, tanks and artillery blazing torrents of destruction out into the oncoming horde. Seconds later the heavy weapon troopers joined them, throwing missiles, las-shots, plasma and grav-beams out into the heaving mass. Daemons were blown apart by the concentrated barrage, scores of shimmering and dissolving bodies falling down to be crushed underfoot, yet still they came.

The foes closed into bolter range and were greeted by a blizzard of shells, screaming torrents of firepower inundating the darkness with flares of light. More Neverborn fell, liquefying and melting as their etheric essence was banished. Hundreds of the foul things were cut down, blown apart and broken utterly and yet still they came.

Bylan fired his bolt pistol one-handed as the rolling mass of flesh and darkness closed and he emptied the clip in seconds. He stowed the pistol and drew a combat blade mere moments before the first Daemon charged into range. It was a lissom creature, with slender limbs and back turned legs. It snarled inhumanely as it leapt high, pouncing like some great cat but it was met in mid-air by Captain Toran's relic blade, which neatly bisected it in two before it could land a blow.

The melee closed in all around, obscene flesh and claws throwing itself at the line of blue without care. There was a terrible miasma about them, a visceral horror that went beyond the mere physical but the Space Marines were inured to terror and fought on regardless. Still the numbers swamping the defensive line were endless and the Daemons pressed hard, trying to encircle the individual squads. In seconds the Command Squad found itself cut off, surrounded on three sides and desperately fighting for their lives.

In the melee Bylan saw an arachnid Daemon with huge fangs and hairy legs charging at them. It was intercepted by Furion who grabbed it with both fists. The Daemon gnashed its fangs in his face and powered forward but Furion clung on and held it at bay, mere inches from his helm. Meanwhile Persion and Jediah flanked it and began lopping off its limbs one by one, leaving it helpless.

Elsewhere Novak was duelling a Daemon upon a steed, some two-legged beast with a long snout and a whipping tongue. He deflected the blows from above off his combat shield while neatly chopping a leg off with his sword. The beast toppled over, taking the Daemon with it and the Champion stabbed down, tearing out its heart.

Yet none of them could match the potency of Arvael, the Librarian fighting in the thick of the throng. He had a shimmering Kine shield over his left hand and in his right was his Force-Morningstar. He chanted abjurations as he swung it in great arcs and any Daemon it touched exploded into gore. It was his power that was doing this, the Warp energy anathema to the Daemons at a fundamental lever. He was fighting fire with fire and his kill count tripled anyone else's.

Bylan was distracted as a Daemon leapt at him, a female form with crab-like claws. There was a terrible glamour about it, a shimmering distortion that tried to draw the eye and befuddle the observer. It was hypnotic and mesmerising, a bewitchment to ensure the feeble and the weak-minded but a Space Marine was neither, their minds were fortresses and such pathetic tricks had no effect.

Bylan prepared to greet it but at the last second something strange happened. As the Daemon approached the Standard Bearer it slowed slightly, its eyes glazing over and seemingly becoming very lethargic. Bylan had no time to ponder this odd behaviour; instead he instantly stabbed forward and plunged his combat blade into where its heart should be. The Daemon collapsed silently and began to dissolve into stinking ooze as Bylan looked around for his next foe.

What he saw was Captain Toran duelling a twenty-foot feathered snake. The Captain swung for its head but Daemon moved faster, wrapping its bulk around the Captain and pinning his arm. Before he knew it Bylan was charging forward, crying his outrage at the danger to the Captain. He closed with the Daemon and as he did so it swayed drunkenly and blinked as if confused. Bylan did not question his good fortune but struck hard, lopping off its head in one blow. The Daemon collapsed, evaporating before their eyes and Toran was freed but there was no time to cheer their success.

A great roar swept over the battlefield, the cry of thousands of inhuman throats lifted as one. Bylan's head swung around and he saw another force entering the field. Transhuman giants clad in lurid Ceramite and bearing obscene heraldry upon their plates. They were the most hated and reviled of all foes, Traitors, Chaos Marines, Emperor's Children.

Bylan gripped the standard tighter as the Chaos Marines joined the fray and the Storm Heralds surged to meet them. Two sides clashing with cries of hatred and fury on their lips and none could say which one would prove victorious.


	22. Chapter 22

**Locum Ignotum Chapter 22**

The music of battle was everywhere, the deafening clamour enveloping everything and wrapping all in its suffocating din. From one side came righteous cries of rage and shouts of exhortation mixed with millennia-old battle-cries. On the other were inhuman screeches and giggling laughter, chittering enticements that defied understanding and sanity. Chainswords roared and bolters sang their song as the counterpoint of snacking claws and gnashing fangs tried to drown them out.

Amid all that Jubila was strolling, enjoying the music all around him. He walked as if he had not a care in the world, as if nothing could touch him. He was clad in his armour, polished to its most extreme potential and shimmering with fresh colours. He also had his Charnabal sabre and plasma pistol in hand, he was a hedonist not an idiot after all.

All around him Daemons and Chaos Marines were battling blue-clad Imperial lickspittles, creating a glorious calamity. It struck Jubila as odd that the Storm Heralds had chosen this ground to stand on, their dull Codex wouldn't have approved. But in their pedantic dreariness, they had positioned themselves between his hosts and the helpless weak mortals. How predictable, how dull, how magnificent an opportunity to crush them utterly.

Jubila felt his senses being stimulated by the rush of battle, driving his emotions to their most extreme edge. Sometimes he could understand the urges of the Kakophoni, those among the Emperor's Children Legion who became addicted to the rush of battle, often peeling their eyes open and mutilating themselves to better experience it. Jubila enjoyed a wider range of stimulations but battle still pleased him endlessly.

All around him his troops were throwing themselves into battle, taking their carnage to the most extreme potential. Jubila had once known a warrior of the IIIrd Legion, a dull creature called Maxivus Dane, who had oft talked about their need to improve upon the Emperor's work. He had been limited and narrow-minded but he had been right about that at least. Everywhere Jubila's armies unleashed horrors beyond those the accursed Emperor had intended and he would not have recognised those who professed themselves to be his children.

Jubila spied Baeghost unleashing his Blastmaster in long bursts of sonic disruption. He threw caution to the wind as he twisted his weapon left and right, blasting as many of his allies as enemies. He was laughing as he wreaked carnage, revelling in pure destruction and Jubila approved most heartedly.

There was Rebis, using his power to direct the Daemonic hordes and summoning new entities with every gesture. There seemed to be no end to the forms they could take and Rebis was an expert at finding new, and delightful shapes for the ethereal beings to manifest. His madness only added to the display, a performance as devastating as it was fresh and original.

Jubila sped Salmacis duelling a Storm Herald one on one, the pair exchanging blows as fast as the eye could follow. The Daemon bound into his chainsword was singing as it cleaved the air, an insane melody without rhyme or rhythm. The Storm Herald was fighting hard but could not prevent the blade scoring his arm, cutting through the Ceramite with ease.

The lickspittle's skin was nicked by the smallest cut and the Daemon cackled as it pulsed a vision of Chaos into his soul. The Storm Herald collapsed in convulsions as his mind was wracked with the glory of the Warp and the beauty of Slaanesh. He fell to his knees in a paroxysm of joy and despair and Salmacis did not hesitate to swing his blade wide to take off his head.

Suddenly Jubila was distracted by a roar from above and he spied the form of an Assault Marine arcing high. He seemed to have been separated from his squad but fought on regardless. Now he was dropping right at the Warlord's position, seeking his head. Jubila went still as the lickspittle dropped then at the last moment twisted aside and let the Marine hit the ground beside him. Jubila effortlessly rode the impact of the shockwave and laughed as the loyalist cried in frustration.

Jubila cried, "Welcome to my arena, let us dance together!"

The Assault Marine snarled, "You die here Heretic!"

Jubila sniggered and said, "Do they actually teach you such dreary dialogue?"

The Storm Herald threw himself forward, swinging an ugly Chainsword in a clumsy overhead sweep. Jubila stepped adroitly out of its path and used the tip of his sabre to deflect the blade aside. The Marine came at him in a crude sweep but Jubila ducked underneath and his sabre flicked out to cut into the Marine's right knee.

The Storm Herald roared like a stuck pig and tried to batter Jubila down but the warlord had already relocated. He spun behind the warrior and his sabre swished by to penetrate his left knee. The Marine staggered like an old man, desperately fixing his amour's legs solid to keep him upright. Jubila giggled to see his foe stumbling around and lashed out to spear through his opponent's sword hand.

The chainsword dropped to the dirt but the Marine desperately grabbed for a bolt pistol. Jubila was faster though and his blade neatly clipped off the other hand in one blow. A swift kick followed, knocking the Assault Marine into the mud, helpless and defenceless.

Jubila laid his sword across the fallen Marine's neck and said, "Any last words?"

"For the Emperor!" snarled the Storm Herald.

"I met him you know," Jubila sneered, "He wasn't all that great."

The Marine barked, "You lie!"

Jubila grinned and said, "Of course I am, I never met him, but you're never going to get to tell anyone."

Then his blade tore sideways and ripped off the head of his foe entirely. Jubila stepped back as the lickspittle's corpse crashed backwards and looked around for his next thrill. The battle was going well, his forces had the numbers and the momentum to carry the day. Over on one flank resistance was fierce, a stomping roaring Dredanought delaying the advance, but the rest of the field was practically his. Save for one spot, one tiny corner that was holding firm against all odds.

Jubila frowned at this imperfection and peered over to see a tight knot of resistance, a small group of Storm Heralds battling back the Daemons that surrounded them on all sides. Among them he spied a warrior in Captain's heraldry, the boring clichéd patterns demanded by their stifling codex. He was surrounded by a core of veterans warriors, fighting tooth and nail to fend off the Daemons, while overhead fluttered a Standard.

These must be the Storm Herald's most elite warriors, their leader and his best men and it showed. They were slaughtering Daemons left and right, cutting them down with ease whenever they closed. Their slaughter was incredible to witness, a fearful tally that made even Jubila blink.

Then Jubila's eyes narrowed as he realised these warriors were a little too good, they were causing too many casualties without loss. Nobody was that good, not against Daemons. No, Jubila realised, it wasn't the warriors it was the Daemons themselves, something was affecting them. Whenever a Neverborn came too close to the group they would slow in their motions, seemingly dazed and lethargic, vulnerable to counterattack.

Jubila's nose wrinkled and he turned to call, "Rebis, what's happening?"

"It can't be a Pariah, I would sense it," Rebis called in a masculine tone then repeated in a feminine pitch, "There's a locus of positive belief working against us. It surrounds them like a halo and it's affecting the Neverborn."

"What?!" Jubila shouted, "The Imperial lickspittles have never had that power before!"

"We're in the Warp, thoughts shape reality here," Rebis barked in a Masculine tenor then in a feminine timbre, "Neverborn are emotional gestalts, faith and belief are more real to them than bolters or blades!"

Jubila's anger surged and he barked, "Well do something about it!"

Rebis immediately began to chant and a corona of dark power built up around the head of his staff, a crackling nimbus of energy. With a mere gesture he cast the bolt outwards, sending it hurtling towards the embattled Storm Heralds. The bolt flew over the heads of the Neverborn and stray arcs of power shot out, incinerating random Daemons to ash.

It looked like it would hit the squad head on and end their defiance in an instant yet at the last moment there was a flash of purest light from amidst the Storm Heralds. The bolt began to unravel, picked apart even as it closed on them and by the time it arrived it was nothing more than a cloud of smoke.

"They have a Librarian, a young one but powerful," Rebis snarled in a masculine voice and then in a feminine accent, "Try to counter this fool."

A gesture of the hand brought a hundred daggers of pure darkness into being, floating around the Sorcerer like flies. Jubila watched as he sent them flying away, arcing over the crowds to fall like rain. Yet his frustration grew as he saw a shimmering Kine shield emerge over the enemy's heads, a barrier that the knives bounced off harmlessly.

Jubila snarled in anger and roared, "Finish them or it's your head next!"

"Worry not, I have something special I held back," Rebis giggled delicately then growled, "Let's see how you handle this, child."

Rebis made a complicated series of gestures and uttered a strange phrase that had nothing to do with any human tongue. From the hordes of Neverborn emerged a rotund creature, strangely squat and inelegant compared to its kin. It was a toad-like Daemon, about the size of a pony, with large bags of flesh hanging under its throat.

Jubila blinked and said, "That's it?"

"Size matters not," Rebis hissed then barked, "Go and do what you were spawned to do!"

The Daemon blinked and then bounded away, moving as fast as a Mastiff after a hare. It disappeared into the heaving crowds, headed straight for the embattled Captain and his squad. Jubila tried to track it in the melee but he could not see a thing, all he could do was wait and watch.

Long seconds passed and Jubila thought his emissary had failed, he was about to cut down Rebis for failure but then there was a sharp pop. Jubila's eyes widened as he saw a thick cloud of fog arise all around the Storm Herald's elites, a cloying vapour that seemed almost alive in the way it expanded and contracted. Daemons all around fell back, shrieking as their ethereal flesh dissolved, the merest touch disintegrating their bodies.

Jubila was amazed as a large gap appeared in the melee and the vapour burrowed into both armies. It took almost a minute to clear and Jubila said, "What is it?"

"The Daemon's sacs were filled with Warp poison, deadly to mortals and even an Astartes would be rendered unconscious at the merest breath," Rebis explained in a superior tone then he growled, "They will be unconscious for hours."

Jubila looked again and saw the clouds evaporating, revealing the aftermath. The Captain was down as were his elites, leaving only two still standing. The first had the Psychic hood of a Librarian, he must have been shielded by his Warp power. The other was a Standard Bearer, oddly unaffected by the Warp touched gas. It was peculiar but hardly relevant, the elites were out of the fight.

Jubila felt the rush of triumph as he felt the battle turn in his favour and called, "The time has come, bring up the Soul Grinder!"

From the thick of the throng Salmacis called back, "Are you sure?"

Jubila smiled and said, "Oh yes, I am in the mood for total overkill. Let us cry havoc and let loose Ozymandias."


	23. Chapter 23

**Locum Ignotum Chapter 23**

Bylan coughed, over and over, trying to clear his throat. His augmetic lungs burned, sending tendrils of fire into his chest. He wasn't quite sure how metal and plastek could hurt but they were managing it regardless. It was painful and aggravating but those implants had unexpectedly saved his life. One second the Command Squad had been in the thick of the fight, battling for their lives and the next thick clouds of cloying poison had erupted out of nowhere. The Daemons had dissolved in the acidic soup and the Astartes had collapsed helplessly.

At Bylan's feet the Command Squad were strewn about, sinking into unconsciousness as the foul gas did its work. Only Bylan's augmetic lungs had spared him but he was aghast nonetheless, seeing such proud warriors laid low. Then he saw Captain Toran, keeled over and passed out in the mud, his precious relic blade inches from his hand.

Bylan's hearts leapt into his mouth and he sheathed his blade as he dashed over crying, "+Apothecary, Apothecary!+" There was no response to his cries, merely the poison swirling all around. He rushed to the Captain's side and knelt by him, keeping the Standard aloft with one hand. He was relieved to see that Toran still breathed but he was totally unconscious; there was no telling how long for.

Bylan sensed a swirl of movement behind him and leapt to his feet but was surprised when he saw the unmistakable sight of Arvael approaching. The Librarian looked deathly pale but he was conscious and moving. His body surrounded by a shimmering Kine shield, keeping the poison at bay as he stumbled over.

Bylan saw the Librarian looked dazed but had not the time to let him recover and called, "+Arvael, what's happening?+"

"I was too slow," Arvael said, "I should have seen it coming."

Bylan shook his head and said, "+The Captain is down, we have to evacuate him+"

"We can't," Arvael said grimly, "We are losing this battle, if we fall back the Company dies."

"+We have to save the Captain!+" Bylan barked.

Arvael glanced to the side and stated, "No time, here they come again."

Bylan saw the poison cloud was dissipating, revealing the gibbering horde of Daemons beyond. They were a nightmare of fangs and claws and evilly grinning faces, all gathering for the final blow. Bylan drew his combat blade as the mist cleared and said, "+No one touches the Captain+"

The first Daemon came at them, a female with giant scissor claws for hands. It blurred towards them with a gleeful cry and Bylan lifted his blade to intercept it. At the last moment the Daemon staggered, its eyes glazing over and Bylan struck, spearing it through the heart. The Daemon collapsed without so much as a hiss but the next one was already coming at him, with a barbed whip in hand. Bylan countered with the haft of the Standard, letting the whip coil around it and the Daemon froze with an expression of horror. The Standard Bearer didn't hesitate but struck low, tearing out its guts and leaving it to collapse to the ground.

To his side Arvael was swinging his Force-Morningstar, the crystal head glowing with psychic might. Any Daemon it touched exploded into ash, his otherworldly power abhorrent to them at a fundamental level. The pair were slaughtering droves but they were surrounded by an endless field of Daemons, clawed nightmares hissing and darting at them with deadly intent. Bylan knew that they were outnumbered and outmatched and yet the Daemons didn't seem able to land a fatal blow. Whenever they came close they would stumble or pause, repelled by something he could not discern.

Bylan parried a blow from a fiend with too many elbows and he cried, "+What's happening to them?+"

Arvael smashed a bestial Daemon steed down, breaking its spine as he yelled, "I don't know, somethings working against them, disrupting their focus."

Bylan speared his opponent in the eye and then caught a fierce blow on his pauldron, he swept about with his blade as he yelled, "+What causing it?+"

Arvael threw his hand forward with his palm open and a wave of telekinetic power bowled over a dozen Daemons as he cried, "What part of I don't know did you not understand? You're not a pariah, I would sense that. The only other possible answer would be a nexus point of positive belief, a fulcrum upon which faith turns but I don't recall seeing any Cathedrals nearby."

Bylan felt his world shift around him as the realisation hit hard, he knew what was happening, he knew what was going on here. He drew in a breath as he fought off a fiend with tentacles for arms and cried, "+Its the Standard!+"

Arvael battered a Daemon shaped like a chariot down as he cried, "What?"

Bylan yelled, "+You said it had to be a nexus of belief, it must be the banner!+"

Arvael cried, "That's insane!"

Bylan took a blow that rung his helm hard but still shouted, "+You haven't been with the Company long but the Standard is a focus for our Brother's faith. They believe in its sanctity, they believe that as long as it flies that they can't be beaten+"

Arvael swung his weapon and blew apart Bylan's foe as he cried, "We're half in the Warp, thoughts and beliefs are real here. The Daemons are ideas made corporeal but they are still made of emotions, belief is real to them, more real than Bolters or blades."

Bylan faced off against a female-like Daemon with immense fangs for teeth and called, "+Great, how does that help us?+

Arvael called back, "You have to take the standard into the middle of the horde, expose its heart to the nexus!"

Bylan was aghast and cried, "+I can't leave the Captain!+"

Arvael growled, "It's the Captain or the Company, make your choice."

Time froze for an instant as Bylan faced a choice he never thought he would have to make. His hearts were torn in two, on one side his loyalty to Captain Toran on the other his duty as Company Ancient. He was sworn to carry the Standard into the heart of the fray, to fly it high and inspire the whole Company to greatness. He had a chance to turn this battle around but it would mean leaving Toran defenceless, leaving the man to whom he owed everything.

Bylan looked about and saw the squads of Third Company being overrun, their line bending backwards as the pressure of the Daemons overwhelmed them. The Predators and other tanks were beset by monstrous fiends, many of them already wreaked and smoking. The battle had already turned against them and Bylan knew that Third Company was facing defeat.

Bylan was torn by indecision but then he looked up at the banner, the Standard that had been borne by so many honoured Brothers before him. How could he dare to do less than them. Bylan's jaw clenched and his grip tightened on the haft, then he took a step forward and another. He opened his vox to the Company frequency and cried, "+All squads rally to me, follow the Standard, follow the Banner up the centre!+"

Bylan threw himself forward, holding the Standard high. Arvael followed him swinging his Force-Morningstar wide to destroy any Daemon that came close. Bylan held the haft an iron grip as he barrelled forward, chopping left and right with his combat blade. Before him Daemons paused, looking dazed and confused as he approached, letting him cut them down.

The mass of Daemons closed ranks and presented a solid wall of immaterial flesh but Bylan gritted his teeth and pressed on, barrelling into them. He lashed out at the overwhelming numbers and cut down many but no matter how many he slew more pressed in. Even in their confused state they boxed him in on all sides, pinning him in and clawing at his armour. He saw a Daemon with a lamprey mouth and spiders for hands come at him and knew he could not block it in time. Death stared him in the face but he refused to blink.

One second before it could strike another force intervened. A roaring chainsword suddenly burst from its chest, tearing it apart in a spray of gore. Bylan blinked as the Daemon fell apart, revealing a blue-clad warrior behind it. It was Sergeant Matheus, rallying to the Standard Bearer's call and he wasn't alone.

Bylan's hearts soared as he saw more Brothers closing in around him, Assault Marines, Tacticals, Devastators and Sergeants. All trace of squad formation was gone but they closed ranks around the Standard Bearer, forming a solid knot of resistance. A ring of blue Ceramite surrounded Bylan and he gripped the Standard in both hands, lifting it high as he cried, "+Forward Brothers!+"

As one the Storm Heralds heaved, hacking and slashing at any Daemon in reach. The effect of the banner slowed the immaterial horrors, letting the Astartes cut them down with ease. Step by step they advanced, more Brothers joining them second by second, the whole Company massed into one glorious charge.

Bylan saw that they were making their way into the heart of the horde and for a moment he thought that they could turn the tide. But then he spied a massive wave of ethereal creatures approaching, an overwhelming tide of Daemon barrelling forward. Their numbers were so tightly packed they looked like one single entity and even united Third Company couldn't stand against that. Arvael cried, "The nexus isn't enough, we need more!"

Bylan gritted his teeth knowing the Librarian was right, they couldn't hold against that. But there was one thing he knew these Brothers held dearer than life itself, one thought that fired their souls like none other. Bylan drew in a breath and then shouted loudly for all to hear, "+Brothers, lift your voices, let them hear who comes for them: Primarch's Own… Primarch's Own!+"

As one every Space Marines cried aloud, "Primarch's Own!"

The cry rang forth and it invoked in every heart the fierce pride and indomitable spirit of the Storm Heralds. All their ideals and aspirations were wrapped up in that cry, in their spiritual connection to their gene-father. Above all Third Company believed in Roboute Guilliman, they believed that so long as his spirit was with them then they could not be defeated. It was more than a dream, it was purest faith.

The Daemons physically staggered as the wave of emotion washed over them, the pure belief hitting them like a tsunami. Against any other foe this would have been folly, in any other place it would have been useless, but these Daemons were ideas made flesh, currently saturated in raw Warp power. Concepts and belief were real to them, faith a power more potent than an artillery barrage. Their spiritual essence was formed of perversion and corruption but this was purity itself.

They shook with a terrible palsy and convulsed in fits, many froze up or shrank back, their existence disrupted by a spiritual force that was a complete contrast to their own. As one, Third Company roared, seeing their foes' debilitation and they responded with full fury. Bylan saw his Brothers throw themselves into the melee, hacking and slashing with furious zeal. Daemons fell before them like wheat before a scythe and he was at the front of the charge. For a moment he understood the tenants of the Adepta Sororitas, their assertions about the power of faith itself.

He ran as fast as he could into the heart of the foe, carrying the Standard at the very point of the spear. Never before had he led a charge himself, never had he known how magnificent it could be. The power of the charge bowled the Daemons over and they were cut down left and right. A few Chaos Marines tried to resist but they were overwhelmed by numbers, torn apart in a frenzy of righteous bloodletting. Nothing could hold before the Storm Heralds and as one they ripped the Daemons to shreds. Bylan cried aloud as he felt the rush of victory surge through him and knew that this was the turn of the tide.

Victory was close at hand and yet the enemy was not finished yet.

From ahead came a terrible screech and a monstrous clamour as something huge approached. Bylan's eyes went wide as he saw an abomination approaching, half-machine, half-Daemon. It was huge, it was a nightmare brought to life and it was not daunted by the faith of the Storm Heralds: a Soul-grinder.

Bylan paused for an instant as he saw the monster closing but then there was heavy footfall from behind and he heard the booming of Honourable Ajax's voice cry, "STAND BACK BROTHERS, THIS ONE IS MINE!"


	24. Chapter 24

**Locum Ignotum Chapter 24**

The battle paused for an instant as the Soul-Grinder closed, roaring its hatred in an unearthly thunder. It was hideous to look upon, an abomination in form and nature. It shook the earth with its tread and made lesser Daemons shrink back in fear, not one of them willing to challenge the Daemon Prince bound within its shell.

The Soul-Grinder walked on four crab-like legs, made of gears and pistons but its upper body was fleshy and taut with muscle. It had two arms, purple in hue and its hands were tipped with long black claws. From its rear grew another appendage, a bulging tail that reared up over its head, tipped with a spike that dripped poison like a Scorpion. But worse of all was its face, an all too human visage that glowered with rage and cunning. A sharp mind, totally unlike the bestial minds of its lesser kin, one that knew hatred and despair.

Bylan was dwarfed by the monster, all the Storm Heralds were, each one of them utterly outclassed. Yet there was one who dared to challenge it, the Dreadnought Ajax whom charged forth crying, "FACE ME FIEND!"

The Soul-Grinder's face split in wide-grin and in a voice that echoed with immaterial reverberations called, "Come to me, come and greet Ozymandias."

Bylan was aghast that this thing could talk but Ajax was undaunted and charged at full pace, his stomping feet carrying through the din of battle. His Assault cannon spun as he ran and it unleashed a hail of rounds, a barrage that would have decimated a sea of foes. Yet the Soul-Grinder was not hurt, the rounds running off its hide like the lightest rain. The Daemon Engine roared in fury and then the pair slammed together in a thunderous retort.

The Daemon horde screamed at the sight and once more closed in, rushing forward to engage the small knot of Storm Heralds. Bylan found himself in the thick of the fighting, battling to hold off the tide of Daemons. He struggled to keep the Standard upright and the nexus surrounding it slowed the Daemons down. The Storm Heralds held firm and battered down any who came at them but the enemy just kept coming regardless. The two sides were stalemated, neither one able to break the other.

Despite being surrounded Bylan could still see the battle between the two war machines, the duelling giants battering away at each other. Ajax was swinging his fist in wide sweeps, smashing armour plates and gouging at fleshy sinews. In return Ozymandias clawed at the Dreadnought's hide, leaving long gouges in the sarcophagus.

Thunder rolled and lightning flared as the pair battered away at each other, landing blows that would have broken the greatest of men and shattered fortresses to rubble. Ajax hammered with his fist, over and over, roaring his defiance for all to hear. In return Ozymandias struck back with claws and spiked limbs. His Scorpion tail arched up high over their heads and struck down, gouging at Ajax's dorsal armour, ripping and tearing at the reinforced plates.

Their duel took on a significance all its own, the rest of the battle fading in comparison. Nothing else mattered now, only this clash of giants, the fulcrum upon which the whole battle would turn. Ajax roared and swung his fist in an uppercut that caught the Soul-Grinder dead on. Power flared as the disruption field surged but the Daemon Engine was unbroken and lashed out with its claws once more. Ajax fended off the blows but he was seriously outmatched, attacks coming at him from all sides.

Even as Bylan watched the Soul-Grinder swung its scorpion tail to the side, trying to stab Ajax in the back. The Contemptor saw it coming and moved his right arm to intercept, blocking the blow with his assault cannon. The tail hit the arm above the elbow joint and sheared right through it, leaving the limb to drop in a ragged heap upon the ground. Ajax staggered back, sparks spraying from his ruined arm, yet he refused to countenance defeat and bellowed, "YOU SHALL NOT WIN!"

The Soul-Grinder sneered and hissed, "Brave words, but I see the heart of you. You are tired of endless war, so tired of living. You want me to win, you want me to send you to your death."

Ajax roared in defiance and charged forward once more, bringing his fist up. The Soul-Grinder grinned and reached out with its claws expecting another wrestling match but at the last second Ajax triggered his flamer and spat burning promethium into the Daemon's face.

Ajax barrelled forward and jabbed out with his fist but Ozymandias moved faster and caught the blow in one palm. Fleshmetal hissed as the disruption field arched but the Daemon sneered, "I have bathed in the fires of the Warp, I have danced in the coronas of dying stars. Did you really think a drop of Promethium would hurt me?"

Ajax struggled to pull his fist back but the Soul-Grinder heaved and slammed its bulk into the Dreadnought. Ajax went over like a toppled tree, slamming down on his back in a spray of mud. The Storm Heralds gasped to see the mighty war machine laid low and their line wavered and bent back.

Ajax tried to lash out from the ground but the Soul-grinder swayed effortlessly out of the way. Then Ozymandias stabbed down with one crab-like leg, pinning the arm and he leaned into hiss, "It is over, stop struggling. Accept your fate and be glad, your long dreary life is over."

"NEVER," Ajax roared.

Ozymandias chuckled and dragged a black claw over the battered sarcophagus as he said, "I know what it is like to be imprisoned in cold unfeeling metal, I know how it drags at your spirit. You are weary, so very tired and every day you long to see it end. I grant you a boon, I shall set you free. Death has come, rejoice for it is over at last."

From afar Bylan saw Ajax's distress and knew that in a moment the Soul-Grinder would smash down with its claws and end the Dreadnought in one blow. Before he knew what he was doing Bylan was running forward, bashing his way through the melee. He sprinted towards the duelling giants, blind to all else save the contest before him. Bylan saw Ozymandias draw his claws back, preparing to strike down on the prone Dreadnought and the Standard Bearer responded by throwing himself at the pair. The Daemon Prince spotted him coming and fractionally turned his head, a sneer of contempt spread over his face, but it turned to one of horror as he spied the Standard in Bylan's grip.

Bylan ran for all he was worth, stabbing the Banner upwards, right at the Soul-Grinder's face. Ozymandias shrieked as the Standard came right at him, the halo of faith surrounding it as obvious to the Daemon within as a lighthouse on a stormy night. It was blazingly bright to ethereal eyes and its purity was loathsome on an instinctive level. Ozymandias reared back in revulsion, throwing his hands up before his face to ward off the corona of belief.

At that moment Ajax moved, swinging his remaining arm across his body from a prone position. The wreaking ball of a fist caught Ozymandias' crab-like leg right behind the knee joint and shattered it apart, blowing the lower limb clean off. The Soul-Grinder swayed awkwardly on three legs as the unexpected blow sent it staggering back but Ajax wasn't done yet, his fist came about once more and this time tore off the other leg.

Ozymandias screamed as he collapsed forward, his front driven into the mud as his back legs scrambled for purchase. It was hopeless though, he was pinned, trapped by his own mass and unable to move. His scorpion tail thrashed and jabbed out but could not assist now: the Soul-Grinder was completely immobilised.

Bylan watched in wonder as Ajax slowly stood up, sparks spraying from the ruin of his Assault cannon. The Contemptor pulled his fist back as he loomed over the fallen Daemon Engine and he bellowed, "I CANT DIE YET, NOT WHILE THEY STILL NEED ME!"

Then he struck, driving his fist right into the centre of the fleshy chest before him, tearing out the Daemon's heart. There was a single moment of stillness, as the whole battle paused in wonder to see the scene before them and then there was a flare of dark light as the Soul-Grinder exploded. Blood and sinews and gears erupted outwards, spraying fleshmetal in all directions. A plume of black flames shot skyward, scorching Ajax's mauled chest and casting the whole battlefield into shadow. Bylan could feel the heat of it even through his armour and he could have sworn he heard dark laughter as something foul slipped free of its prison and fled into the freedom of the Warp.

The fire burned for an eternity, a tower of accursed energy and a monument to devastation. Then suddenly it blinked out of existence, leaving spotted afterimages on everybody's vision. Bylan blinked over and over as his helm's autosenses fought to restore themselves and then they cleared, leaving a vision of triumph. Nothing remained, save a pile of scrap metal and standing over it the scorched and battered form of Ajax, holding his fist aloft as he roared in victory.

The Daemon horde shrieked in horror and dismay and then as one their courage broke. The heaving mass of Neverborn entities turned tail and ran from the field, their mettle proving brittle indeed. They had seen one far mightier than they laid low and they had not the fortitude to stand against his conqueror. They were fickle creatures of instinct, living only in the moment, and right now their instincts were telling them to run.

As Bylan watched the enemy turned their backs and fled, disappearing as fast as their limbs could carry them. Here and there a handful of Chaos Marines struggled against the tide, shouting defiance but they could not hold the line. The Daemons swept over them and any who tried to resist were crushed underfoot. The rest were swept up and dragged away, leaving the field to the Storm Heralds.

Bylan could scarcely believe his eyes and he gazed at the retreating horde for a moment. Then his ears rang as a lone warrior lifted his voice in elation and cried aloud. The cry was taken up by another and another then all of Third Company roared, celebrating their impossible triumph.

Bylan punched the air too and held the Standard prouder than ever before, yet he was distracted by the warrior closest to him. It was Ajax, who was standing still amid the triumph, bent over slightly as if peering at his feet. Bylan had never seen the indomitable Dreadnought so still and silent, looking for all the world like an exhausted soldier, trying to gather a morsel of strength.

Bylan stepped nearer and said, "+Honourable Brother, is there a problem?+"

Ajax's vox speaker trembled and he whispered, "Just… need a minute."

Bylan was surprised, the vox speaker must be broken, Ajax had never been so quiet before. Bylan glanced at the Company and saw they were still celebrating and had not noticed the Dreadnought's strange behaviour. He leaned in and said, "+What are you doing?+"

"Tired," Ajax whispered, "So tired…"

Bylan was getting really concerned now, something was very wrong here and he said, "+Ajax, the Company are here, shall I summon aid?+"

Suddenly Ajax straightened, drawing himself upright and his voice returned to its booming timbre, "THERE IS NOTHING WRONG. I AM AJAX: THE BROTHERS CALL FOR ME WHEN THEY REQUIRE AID, NOT THE OTHER WAY AROUND. THEY MUST NEVER SEE WEAKNESS."

Bylan blinked and dared to say, "+But I could…+"

Ajax turned to face him and said, "YOU WILL DO NOTHING AND YOU SHALL SPEAK NO MORE OF THIS."

Then the Dreadnought turned and stomped away leaving the Standard Bearer bemused. Bylan turned back to the Company and saw Chaplain Wrethan leading the Initiates in a ritual of triumph, a brief battlefield proclamation, not the full ritual observance. Bylan approached as the Chaplain concluded his sacrament and he heard the officer saying, "We shall recover our wounded and fall-back to the refugee camp. Our enemies are bested but not destroyed, they shall come again. We must hasten the evacuation and complete preparations. Make haste Brothers, we must leave this place before the enemy returns."


	25. Chapter 25

**Locum Ignotum Chapter 25**

The docking tower rang with the sounds of activity, the shouts of men urging each other to hurry up and the rumble of machinery. Climbing up the ramps were lines of servitor driven cargo pallets, each one loaded with a score of refugees. The squat machines trundled along on caterpillar tracks, oblivious to the urging of serf guides who were waving them to move faster. The refugees looked fearful and anxious, unsure of where they were going or what fate awaited them. Still they had heard the distant thunder of battle and none of them were willing to risk being left behind.

Half-way up the tower the Astartes waited, the surviving leaders of the Company. Captain Toran and his Command squad had been evacuated to the Apothecarion on the Thunderchild, leaving Chaplain Wrethan in charge. With him were Librarian Arvael, Honourable Ajax and Bylan, still holding the Standard in his hands. Bylan had never been more proud of his role and duty. He was in awe of the power he had seen released and he was humbled to be allowed to bear such a potent relic.

Arvael had told him that the effect of the Banner had only worked because this land was saturated with Warp energy and the foe had been Etheric in nature. He couldn't expect such a miracle to occur again anywhere else. Still it was an incredible privilege to be allowed to bear such a totem and he had renewed his vow never to let it fall so long as he drew breath.

Bylan was distracted as he heard Chaplain Wrethan mutter, "How much longer?"

Arvael commented, "We're going as fast as we can, the refugees are almost all aboard."

In the Captain's absence Bylan had been talking to the bridge crew and ventured, "+There are problems on the ship finding enough space to fit everybody, they've had to open up the holds to cram people in. Feeding all these people will be a strain; the recycling systems will be pushed to the limit+"

"A problem for later," Wrethan muttered, "If we don't get all these people on board swiftly then none of us will be departing."

Their conversation was interrupted as they heard the crump of armoured boots approaching; Bylan peered down the ramp and saw that Leanyr, Maxivus and Ganaar were climbing up towards them. Their armour purred and gaggles of serfs ran behind them, streaming past the Storm Heralds as they made their way up. Wrethan hailed them and said, "What news?"

Leanyr shrugged the mass of his Volkite Culverin to one side and said, "That's the last of the refugees, shuttles are now making one last run to pick up the serf-provosts on the ground, then the evacuation will be complete."

"Astounding," Arvael remarked, "You managed to strip two hours off your original estimate."

Leanyr didn't look particularly impressed as he said, "Would have been three, had the people not bickered so much."

Ganaar remarked, "The sounds of battle put a stop to that, once the noise hit they couldn't move fast enough."

Maxivus sniffed and said, "They weren't the only ones, you would have hared off waving that ridiculous axe had we not held you back."

Ganaar grinned and said, "I didn't volunteer to fight only to be left behind herding panicked civilians."

Wrethan ignored the bickering and said, "Once the people are on board there will be no further point remaining here, we shall cast off immediately."

Arvael's face fell and he said, "Ah… there might be a slight delay. I have to make certain preparations before we can exit this realm, there is a ritual I must perform to open the way wider."

Wrethan's skull-helm turned to glare at the Librarian and he spat, "You're only telling this us now?"

"We are about to fly a starship into a hostile Warp portal," Arvael protested, "Did you think it was going to be easy?"

Bylan felt a spark of trepidation at that. The Daemons had been driven off but they wouldn't have gone far, there was no doubt that they would return and bring the Traitors with them. Most of Third Company were wounded, many still in the Apothecarion, and the losses amongst the war machines had been heavy indeed. When the enemy came again the Storm Heralds would be in a poor state for a fight.

Bylan spoke up to say, "+We can bottle them up at the ramps, keep the foe at bay until we are ready to fall back into the ship itself+"

However Ganaar shook his head and said, "No, you should get into your skiff now."

Bylan blinked in surprise and said, "+But what of the foe?+"

Maxivus stated, "You shall have the time you require."

Bylan didn't understand and said, "+But…+"

Leanyr growled firmly, "You shall have the time."

Suddenly Bylan cottoned on to what the ancient warriors were saying and he gasped, "+You're not coming?+"

Ganaar nodded and said, "We've talked it over and decided we're not going to run. We are making our stand here."

Arvael gasped and said, "What, why would you do that?"

Ganaar grinned and said, "Have you forgotten where we are, this is where we first met and I told you then that this is our hall. This is our home and we shall die to defend it, it's as good a place as any to mark one's grave."

Wrethan shook his head and said, "This is madness, you cannot stay, Baruch would have wanted you to live."

"Baruch taught us to care for the common folk," Maxivus replied, "But at heart we were always Astartes, eternal glory calls and we cannot deny it. You cannot imagine how deeply we have wished for this, no matter how much we denied it."

Suddenly Ajax rumbled, "YOU PROPOSE SUICIDE."

Ganaar nodded and said, "Three against ten thousand, that is a saga worthy of remembrance. We shall stand upon the snow and make it red with the blood of our enemies and when we fall the skalds shall sing that all our wounds were to the fore."

Wrethan lowered his head in respect and said, "I vow that word shall be sent to Fenris; your tale will be sung in the Halls of Russ."

Bylan swallowed at the thought of these three standing before an army of Daemons, all alone and he said, "+With the best of wills you can't hold them for long, let us stand with you. A few squads of backup could give you a real chance+"

Leanyr sighed and said, "You don't understand what we are trying to say: there's no going back for us. Our age is past, there's no place in your Imperium for us. If we left what would there be for the likes of us? I've seen the records of what Terra has become; would your High Lords welcome us back with open arms or condemn us out of hand?"

Bylan lowered his head for he knew the truth. The Imperium would not accept such peculiar warriors; the Inquisition would kill them without hesitation. These warriors were unorthodox, they were aberrations and the Imperium existed to impose conformity. There would be no hero's welcome for these three.

Ajax looked down and said, "YOUR SONG WOULD BE BETTER IF THERE WERE FOUR."

Leanyr shook his head and replied, "No, this is not your fight. Your tale does not end here."

Ajax stated, "MY BROTHERS MUST LEAVE, BUT I WOULD STAND WITH YOU."

Leanyr looked up at the Dreadnought, still battered and scarred from the fighting and said, "I am sorry to say that you will not have such a swift end. You must go on, that is your curse to bear."

Ajax's voice softened as he said, "Five thousand years… how much longer must I endure?"

Bylan blinked in surprise but Leanyr stepped closer and said, "For as long as they still need you."

Ajax's voice deepened and he said, "YES, OF COURSE. I HAVE ENDURED THIS LONG, WHAT IS ANOTHER FIVE THOUSAND YEARS."

Ganaar pulled on his braided beard and said, "Do not mourn, we choose this fate freely. To die fighting against impossible odds, what more could we ask for?"

Maxivus agreed, lifting his noble head as he proclaimed, "We shall put ourselves to the test, our most deadly skills set against theirs. This shall be the culmination of all our endeavours, our final apotheosis. We shall take ourselves to the most extreme limits of what is possible and push back the boundaries of what it means to be Astartes. Such opportunities do not come very often, we must embrace this moment."

Bylan knew that this was the last time he would see these three, they would march to the noblest of ends and die well. He looked upon them and said, "+I can only wish you success and to know that you shall be remembered+"

Wrethan agreed and said, "Your names shall be entered in the Scrolls of Honour."

The three warriors exchanged bemused glances and then Ganaar stated, "I don't know what that is but from your tone it sounds far too solemn and cheerless. Merely lift a tankard of mead in remembrance of us and all will be well."

Leanyr snorted and said, "You lot are all being so dour, personally I just want to try out my Volkite. I didn't go to all the trouble of building this for nothing you know."

Bylan couldn't help but twitch his lip at that, the defiant attitude of true warriors. Then he had a thought and said, "+Your bolter is dry Ganaar, we can't have that. Jediah isn't here but I'm sure he wouldn't want you to go into battle armed only with an axe. Here take my pistol+"

Bylan held out his own bolt pistol, a more significant gesture than it looked. This was a relic of his Chapter, to offer it to another was a gesture of supreme trust and Brotherhood. Ganaar took the pistol and held it up to peer down the sight saying, "Good weight and perfect alignment, I could blow apart a few skulls with this. You have the thanks of an old Wolf."

Bylan lowered his head in respect but at that moment that was a roll of thunder, echoing down from above. Bylan instantly recognised the sound of the Thunderchild's secondary weapons firing and he knew that the enemy had been sighted. He tuned in his vox to the bridge and relayed, "+The enemy comes once more, in vast numbers. They close rapidly; we don't have much time+"

Ganaar gripped his axe and snarled, "Go now, this is our fate not yours. Fly back to your Imperium and remember us."

"You die in glory," Wrethan proclaimed, "You shall never be forgotten."

With that the Storm Heralds turned to go, marching up the ramps to follow the last of the refugees to the ship. Bylan took a step back and his gaze lingered on these three noble warriors, heroes all. He drank in the sight, searing it into his memory, etching their stern unforgiving countenances into his thoughts. What he wouldn't have given to stand with them, fighting to the end, but his path lay elsewhere. Silently he bid them goodbye and then he turned and marched away, not looking back.

Silence fell as the trio were left behind, watching until the echoes of their footsteps at last faded away to nothing. They contemplated all that had occurred and then Leanyr said, "Do you think they have any chance of making it out?"

"Of course not," Maxivus snorted, "Their daft scheme will never work."

Ganaar carefully stowed his gifted Bolt pistol on his belt and said, "Wise men listen when told that something is impossible, heroes go and do it anyway."

Leanyr rolled his one eye and said, "So how are we going to do this?"

Maxivus replied, "To maximise the time we hold them we should split up, take one level each and sow confusion and dismay."

Ganaar nodded and said, "To our posts then and await the final battle to take us into the long night. We shall not see each other again until we reach the Underverse… so any last words?"

Maxivus saluted in the old way, with his fist over his heart and said, "Children of the Emperor, death to his foes."

"Iron within," proclaimed Leanyr hefting his Volkite, "Iron without."

"Let them hear the old cries and know who they face eh?" said Ganaar smiling around his fangs then joined them saying, "Fenrys Hjolda!"


	26. Chapter 26

**Locum Ignotum Chapter26**

The docking tower rang with the thunder of boots and talons, as a rising tide of Ceramite and twisted flesh charged up the ramps. The bulky forms of Chaos Marines jostled for space with twisted nightmares, all of them dashing upwards as fast as they could. The whole tower rang with the distant noise of guns, the starship above denying aerial access and forcing the army to advance on foot.

Among that horde Jubila ran, his face a furious scowl of anger and resentment. He had been watching as his army had battled the Storm Heralds and seen the defeat. He and his Marines had been carried away by the broken Daemons, forced to spend hours regrouping and cajoling their Daemonic allies to return once more. Normally Jubila cherished new sensations and emotions but it seemed defeat was too bitter even for him.

Jubila held his allies in contempt for their feeble will and brittle courage but he knew there was no point in blaming them. These lesser Daemons were fickle by nature, creatures of instinct and sensation with no real intelligence. They did what they wanted, when they wanted, nothing held them back save fear of one greater than they. He knew that the entities would have already forgotten their defeat; memory was of little use to them.

Jubila replayed the battle once more in his mind, seeing the duel between his Soul-Grinder and the Dreadnought. It had been galling to watch, a most unexpected turn of events. Had he not known the bindings made it impossible he would have suspected that Ozymandias had been fighting to lose. Yet lose he had, his vessel had been shattered and his essence banished. That last part worried Jubila more than he cared to admit, Ozymandias wasn't dead, the loyalists had no power to produce that result. The Daemon Prince was free and would neither forgive nor forget his imprisonment. Jubila had gone to extraordinary lengths to capture Ozymandias and now suspected that his former master was planning to repay the slight.

Ahead his Chosen raced, sprinting up the ramps as they climbed level after level. Soon they would reach the ship itself then they would carve their way inside. Jubila thought it was odd that the lickspittles had fallen back to a ship, it wasn't like they had anywhere to go, at best they had delayed their annihilation by a few hours. Chaos would rule this land, just as it did the galaxy beyond. As they crested another ramp his musings were interrupted by an actinic flash. It came from behind a doorway and bore into his warriors. It was a tight beam of focussed energy and it stuck a Chosen dead-on. The beam bored through his power armour like a drill and then blasted out of his back, spraying ashes and burnt chunks of flesh into the crowd behind. Jubila blinked in surprise for that was a volkite beam; he hadn't seen one of those in millennia.

The crowd scattered but were hemmed in by the angle of the ramp and could not avoid another blast. Jubila snarled, "Forward you scum!" and shoved a warrior in the back but the Daemons all around hampered their movements and they were pinned. From the cover of a stone doorway Jubila spied a warrior in ancient armour, bereft of insignia. He wasn't a Storm Herald but Jubila had no time for speculation as the warrior levelled his weapon and discharged it shouting, "From Iron cometh Strength, from Strength cometh Will!"

A Volkite beam missed Jubila by the smallest of margins and blasted a Daemon apart instead. The warlord snarled, "Baeghost, take him down!"

Unfortunately the glutton was struggling with the milling Daemons and shouted, "Can't get an angle!"

Jubila gritted his teeth, with allies like this who needed enemies. Meanwhile the warrior fired again shouting, "From Will cometh Faith, from Faith cometh Honour!"

Another Volkite beam hit a Chosen and ripped his guts out, turning his innards to ash. Jubila snarled at the damage being wrought by one mysterious warrior and saw that his warriors were pinned. He gritted his teeth and growled, "If you want someone killed right, kill them yourself."

The warrior leaned out again and fired his Volkite shouting, "From Honour cometh Iron. This is my unbreakable litany, may it be forever…"

The mysterious warrior was interrupted as a shining plasma bolt hit him right in the head. The blast burned hotter than a man could conceive and in one moment his skull was incinerated, leaving a headless corpse to collapse to the ground. Jubila lowered his pistol, still shimmering with heat and remarked, "Wasn't he dull?"

"Who was that?" asked Rebis in a masculine tone and then answered his own question in feminine timbre, "A relic, a ghost from long ago."

"I don't care," Jubila snarled, "He's delayed us, we must move faster. On my pretties, fly like the lash of Slaanesh was upon you!"

Jubila led the horde onwards, racing up another level and then another. The warlord was suspicious of traps and he was keenly aware that the lickspittles wouldn't have left a lone rear-guard, there must be more. He was proved right as they reached the base of another ramp and saw a single warrior standing there. He was in grey armour as before but this one was standing right out in the open.

The warrior had a slim grey power sword in one hand and his head was exposed, revealing a stern face with a waxed moustache. Jubila was about to wave his horde forward, intending to rush the warrior but then he started in surprise. The warlord held up a fist and cried, "Hold!"

Jubila stared in shock at the warrior for a long second and then whispered, "Maxivus… Maxivus Dane, can it be?"

The warrior sneered, "Jubila, still don't have the good grace to die I see."

"Ha… haha…. Hahaha!" Jubila cried in amusement, the laugh ripping out of him.

Maxivus scowled and said, "What's so funny?"

Jubila snorted, "Everything! You're still alive and here of all places. This was meant to be, Chaos ordained it!"

Maxivus growled, "Speak not to me of your wretched Gods, I have no use for them."

"If only you could see what you so casually dismiss," Jubila chuckled, "Did you ever know that there was a list of warriors who were to be purged at Istvaan III and oddly enough your name wasn't on it. We knew you cared nothing for the throne; all you wanted was to improve yourself. But then your ship got delayed in the Warp and you missed out on all the fun. The smallest twist of fate and your destiny was rewritten, but you were always intended to be with us."

Maxivus raised his blade and said, "I will cut you down like the snake you are."

Jubila smiled and said, "As exciting as that sounds, I have a more amusing opponent for you. Salmacis: front and centre!"

Salmacis approached with his Daemon sword in hand and Maxivus sneered, "A child?"

Jubila grinned saying, "That would be no challenge for you surely?"

Salmacis stalked forward, Daemon blade in hand and Maxivus took on an en-guard position, blade held loosely in one hand. The pair sized each other up and then Salmacis pounced forward, swinging his sword. Maxivus however merely stepped back and angled his sword, parrying the blow effortlessly.

In return he riposted, tearing a chunk out of his opponent's chestplate. Salmacis snarled and swung laterally but Maxivus ducked the clumsy blow and his sword snicked out, penetrating a gap in the armour between his hip and thigh. Salmacis roared angrily and threw his arm wide but Maxivus adroitly stepped back and the blow sailed past his face.

Salmacis snarled in frustration as blood ran down his leg and he advanced, hammering his arm down over and over like a piledriver. He came on like a mindless juggernaut and as he did so the Daemon in his blade roared like an animal in pain. Maxivus however fell back smoothly, his elegance a complete contrast to the brutality of his rival. His sword flicked and darted about, tearing and gouging at his foe, killing him by a thousand cuts.

To Jubila it was obvious that Maxivus was in an entirely different league to his foe, completely outclassing Salmacis in every way. The Chaos Marine could not match the ancient warrior and there had never been any hope of him killing the veteran. But then death had never been Jubila's intent.

Maxivus had inflicted terrible wounds but Salmacis kept coming and managed to back the older Marine into a corner. Maxivus responded by flicking his blade out and darting to one side but for a moment he was exposed. Salmacis saw the opening and took it, swinging his sword about to score through the grey plate across the back, drawing a thin line of blood.

As the skin was broken the Daemon in Salmacis' blade screamed wickedly and there was a tang of warp power as it discharged its infernal energies. For one instant the Daemon was connected to Maxivus's mind and it used that bridge to open a connection to the warp, pulsing a vision into the ancient warrior's very soul. For a single moment Maxivus' mind was flooded with the glories of Chaos, shown the depths of the Warp and the Ruinous Powers that dwelled there.

Maxivus collapsed in a paroxysm of joy and pain, his soul overwhelmed by the visions of Chaos that would be forevermore seared into his mind's eye. Salmacis raised his weapon to end this fight but Jubila waved him back, knowing the joyous torment Maxivus was undergoing. The warrior was seeing the heart of Chaos, the face of Slaanesh in all his dark majesty. Nobody could look upon the Prince of Excess and not be changed by it, not even an Astartes.

Jubila waited until Maxivus eventually stopped convulsing and he rolled over to whisper, "What… what was that?"

Jubila stepped up and said, "That was winning."

Maxivus gasped, "He cheated."

"Cheated?!" Jubila laughed, "We have outgrown such concepts, we have taken ourselves to the limits of what is possible and we have broken them. We have become more than the Emperor ever intended and more than he ever feared. You have just seen the power that makes this possible, you have glimpsed Chaos itself."

"It was… it was" Maxivus gasped, "Beautiful."

Jubila's smile widened, recognising the signs, this warrior had seen Slaanesh and his soul had been exposed to the wondrous addiction of Chaos. Even now the craving would be filling his mind, pushing aside all else save the compulsion for more. Jubila pressed, "You saw the path to perfection, the embodiment of the urge to improve oneself. The power to push back the boundaries of what is possible and become more than we were before."

Maxivus's eyes had a distant look and he whispered, "I… I… want to see it again, I want more."

"Of course you do," Jubila stated knowingly, "You want to exist without limits or stifling morality and I can offer you that. The means to improve beyond your wildest imaginations. All you have to do is embrace your desires, do what you have always wanted to do and re-join the Legion."

Maxivus' face was a picture of torment, the addiction and lust warring with his dedication. It was a battle for his soul and Jubila already knew the outcome. He remembered Maxivus from long ago; the warrior had never been satisfied, always striving to improve himself, always wanting to be more, but not for any noble reason. Like all Emperor's Children Maxivus had never been content with what he already had, he felt he was inadequate, that he hid flaws he could never eradicate.

"The path to perfection," Maxivus breathed, his face lost in wonder, "I want… no… I have to see it again."

Jubila smiled and said, "Of course you do, but first we need a sign of your commitment. A token of your fealty."

Maxivus looked like a drug addict who had seen a syringe stolen from before his eyes and he cried, "I'll do anything, name your price!"

Jubila grinned knowing he had claimed a new follower and said, "Blood, nothing less than blood."

Maxivus was lost in his need to experience the glory of Chaos again and he exclaimed, "That's simple, there's a Space Wolf lurking about a few levels above. Let me kill him for you and then you will show me how to become perfect."


	27. Chapter 27

**Locum Ignotum Chapter 27**

In the uppermost parts of the tower was only stillness, the air totally undisturbed in the dull grey light. The sound of distant ship guns rang down but to all appearances, there were none to hear it. There was no hint that anyone was present and it seemed this scene could have laid undisturbed for millions of years and would so for another million.

That stillness was broken by the ringing sound of feet, a pair of armoured boot climbing a ramp onto the next level. It was Jubila, in all his twisted glory, ascending alone and unescorted. He was striding confidently, as if nothing in the universe could harm him and he seemed utterly assured of his safety.

Jubila paused at the top of the ramp and looked about, taking in the dull grey walls and unadorned stone. Save for the regular glyphs there was nothing to draw the eye, no sensational art or decadence to be seen anywhere. Jubila sniffed in disappointment, how dull this place's makers must have been, how boring.

Jubila would change all that, he would make this whole land into floating palace of Slaanesh. He could see it in his mind's eye, mile upon mile of torture racks, mixed with arenas for perversions to be undertaken. From this land he would lead vast armies out to conquer and enslave. Mind enhancing drugs and poisons would be brought from all corners of the galaxy and every possible depravity would be explored. There would be no limits to the decadence he would bring and Slaanesh would at last reward him with elevation to Daemonhood.

Jubila knew once he was a Daemon Prince he would be immortal, invulnerable. He would have no limits and none would dare to raise their hand to him. Even Ozymandias would no longer be a concern. Jubila realised that he had been standing still for several minutes and sighed, "You might as well come out, I know you're there."

There was the softest scrape of an armoured boot and then from behind a stone doorway came a lone warrior. He was clad in Mark II armour, bereft of insignia or iconography, save for a thick pelt over his shoulders and a heavy axe in his hand, worked with beautiful runic script. His head was bald but twin plaits hung from his chin as a beard.

The warrior's lips drew back to expose his fangs and he snarled in a typical Fenrisian accent, "You knew?"

Jubila cocked his head and said, "Of course, did you think you could leave two traps below and I wouldn't expect a third? Really Ganaar you are dense."

Ganaar's eyes narrowed as he realised the Warlord knew his name and Jubila enjoyed the confusion in his eyes. Ganaar would no doubt be thinking that Jubila had tortured the name out his comrades before killing them but the Warlord had far more entertaining surprises in store than that. Ganaar was looking about and probed, "You came alone?"

Jubila replied nonchalantly, "Why not, you present no danger to me."

Ganaar gripped his axe tightly and said, "Arrogant peacock, I will gift you with a red smile."

"How clichéd," Jubila sighed, "Two champions of their causes fighting in an epic struggle, it's been done to death. Let's try to shake it up a bit, shall we?"

Jubila clapped his hands and from below came the sound of another pair of boots approaching. Ganaar stepped back warily, expecting a trap but his jaw dropped when he saw who was approaching. It was Maxivus, climbing up with his thin sword in hand and a sorrowful look upon his face.

Jubila saw the confusion and dismay on the Space Wolf's face and it lit a spark of joy in his hearts. He could see the warring emotions within the warrior, the mix of hope, suspicion and denial, all fighting for supremacy. Even now the Space Wolf's mind would be racing, trying to cope with the unexpected arrival and deduce what it could mean. Was this a betrayal, a double-cross or an illusion?

Ganaar stepped back in dismay and said, "Maxivus, what are you doing here?"

Maxivus couldn't look him in the eye and whispered, "I'm sorry, I had to."

Ganaar eyed him and said, "This is a trick, you've lured this filth here so we can kill him together."

"No, you don't understand," whispered Maxivus, "I don't have a choice."

"No," Ganaar spat, "I can't believe it, not after everything we've been through. You were always arrogant but this is too much."

Maxivus' looked torn by indecision as he said, "Everything has changed, I've seen the heart of the universe. I can't go back to how it was, to who I used to be. Perfection is within my grasp, I… I can't turn aside now."

Jubila was relishing the pain on display, the broken brotherhood and shattered trust laid bare. He decided to ramp up the tension and said, "Allow me to explain, your friend here has seen the truth of Chaos. He has gazed upon the face of Slaanesh, nobody can do that and not become his slave. The need for more has consumed Maxivus; he will never be free of it."

"Maleficarum!" Ganaar growled as he lifted his axe, "I always knew you were arrogant and weak Maxivus, but I never thought you would bow to the likes of him."

"You'd be amazed at what people will do in the name of obsession," Jubila remarked, "Now can we hurry this along and get to the fighting, I haven't got all day you know."

Ganaar let loose a howl of anguish and threw himself at Maxivus, his axe a smear of light as he aimed for the Traitor's head. Maxivus however responded with blinding speed deflecting the blow with elegant skill and side-stepping the follow-up strike. His blade flicked out and tore a red ribbon in the Wolf's upper arm, before he danced back out of range.

Ganaar chased him, swinging his axe in a figure of eight, the rage and the fury building within him. He struck over and over but each time Maxivus deflected the blows and his return strokes nicked and tore at the Wolf's flesh. Ganaar had strength and rage but Maxivus had speed and skill. The Traitor hadn't taken a wound yet while his opponent was bleeding from a score of cuts.

Maxivus dodged a blow that would have taken off his head and called, "I wish it could have been different but it has to be this way. Can't you see that I have to do this!"

Ganaar roared, "Shut up and fight you bastard!"

The pair danced back and forth, a performance of treachery and betrayal as old as the Imperium. Two warriors tearing at each other, each convinced that they were the just one. It was a microcosm of the struggle consuming the galaxy, brother against brother, friend against friend. Order against Chaos.

Jubila drank it all in and he was thrilled, their bonds of trust and comradery had been shattered and all that was left was rage. For a moment he thought back to his trick with the circle of civilians, making them fight each other for survival, but this was so much better. These two had already broken every bond and oath they had made to each other, they were pushing themselves beyond their limits and were doing things they never thought they would do. There was nothing like a betrayal for pushing people to the most extreme of emotions Jubila thought.

"Stupendous! Magnificent!" Jubila cried delightedly as he clapped his hands loudly, "Encore, encore!"

"Shut up!" Ganaar snarled in anger but for an instant his eyes flicked aside and at that moment Maxivus struck.

The thin grey sword darted out and went straight for Ganaar's axe-hand. The old wolf saw the move coming and tried to avoid it but the sword was too fast and it caught him a glancing blow. The tip scored across the back of his hand and in one moment severed three fingers. Ganaar's axe flew from his hand in a spray of blood and clattered as it rang on the floor.

A mortal would have been shocked and stunned, frozen into a fatal pause but the Space Wolf reacted instantly. He threw himself at his foe, jaws wide open, clearly intended to rip out the throat with his fangs. Maxivus however was ready and his sword point was already back in place, held out so that Ganaar impaled himself on the length of the blade.

The point ripped into Ganaar's belly and he finally froze, transhuman blood running down his legs. His Larraman cells began to clot, trying to stem the bleeding but it was too little too late. The wound was a huge rip across his belly and nothing could save him now. Maxivus lowered his head in respect and said, "You fought well, but you had to know you couldn't beat me."

"Filth," Ganaar gasped still with the blade sticking out of his belly.

"Hold still," Maxivus said, "I'll finish you quickly, for old times' sake."

Ganaar must have been in agony but Jubila heard him snarl, "Still as arrogant as ever but you overlooked something."

Maxivus frowned and said, "Defiant to the end but I know you've got nothing left."

Ganaar's lip twitched as he said, "It seems you forget, I've still got that bolt pistol."

Maxivus' eyes widened as Ganaar's other hand came up holding a blunt pistol. He tried to twist out of the way but the range was too short and before he could react the pistol was pointed at his hearts and the trigger was depressed. A series of loud bangs erupted as the pistol discharged at point blank range, emptying the clip in one burst.

Maxivus' armour actually held against the first bolt but the second dented it and the third broke through entirely. A score of bolt rounds blasted into his chest, exploding within his hearts and blasting him apart from the inside out. Maxivus collapsed backwards in an explosion of flame and gore, leaving his killer standing there with his blade still in his guts.

As Maxivus' corpse lay cooling Ganaar swayed back and forth, practically dead on his feet and Jubila was surprised that he could stand at all. Unfortunately the Warlord wasn't prepared to give him time to recover and drew a Charnabal sabre. He advanced and remarked, "Well that was unexpected but thoroughly enjoyable. Still I'm afraid you have to die anyway."

The Space Wolf momentarily eyed the sword in his own gut, as if thinking of pulling it out and fighting on but Jubila knew he was too wounded for that. Instead Ganaar looked the Warlord in the eye and said feebly, "Death and I are old friends, I do not fear the Underverse."

Jubila stalked closer and said, "You should, there are things in hell waiting to greet you. Chaos takes all sooner or later."

Ganaar offered no resistance but uttered, "It doesn't matter, I die in victory and you have tasted defeat."

Jubila paused in his approach and said, "Perhaps you weren't paying attention but I have everything in my grasp. Your comrades are dead, you are about to die and your throne-worshipping friends will fall soon after, you could never have stopped me."

Now it was Ganaar's turn to smile and he said, "We weren't trying to stop you, just slow you down. And you've wasted a lot of time messing about when you could have been breaking into the skiff."

Suddenly a loud rumble ran down from the very top of the tower and Jubila instantly recognised the sound of a ship breaking away from a dock. He looked up in surpris e and said, "What is going on?"

Ganaar smirked and said, "That's the sound of the Allfather's loyal sons escaping you idiot. They have a way out and if my guess is right it's going to break absolutely everything else in the process. This is the sound of you losing!"

Jubila snarled and thrust his blade forward, stabbing it into Ganaar's hearts. The blade speared right through him and out the other side in a spray of blood. Ganaar however was still smirking and he whispered his last words, "You lose… Fenrys Hjolda."

Then the light fled from Ganaar's eyes and he went limp, Jubila withdrew his blade with a snarl and let the corpse fall to the floor. Then he looked up and a terrible anger built within him as he roared, "No! Nooo!"


	28. Chapter 28

**Locum Ignotum Chapter 28**

The bridge of the Thunderchild was clamouring with noise, serfs shouting at each other as servitors chattered. Crew ran to and fro, desperately struggling to awaken the ship while the secondary weapons fired constantly. Amid that bedlam three Space Marines were fighting for control, struggling to get the ship organised.

From the Enginarium pit Bylan called, "+Plasma Reactors are awakening, the enginseers report they will be ready in ten minutes+"

From the command dais Chaplain Wethan barked, "Too slow, they must hurry!"

Bylan shouted, "+Blessings take time, they say haste will offend the Machine Spirits+"

Wrethan growled, "Then tell them that the guns cannot hold the enemy at bay for long, soon the foe will be in here with them!"

Bylan complied and Wrethan turned to shout, "Librarian, what is the delay?"

From the corner Arvael said, "I must make preparations."

"We have no more time," Wrethan bellowed, "Whatever you're going to do, get the hell on with it!"

Arvael swallowed nervously but knew he could put it off no longer, he had to do what he dreaded above all else. Arvael slipped his mind free of his flesh and sent his vision flying out into the world. The metal and armour of the Thunderchild were no obstacles to him and he passed by as easily as a dream. Outside the hull the world was filled with immaterial horrors, even more obscene in ethereal form than the physical. They flapped everywhere and teemed all over the land in a sea of foulness.

Arvael's soul should have drawn attention but strangely the Daemons held back. Between them lay the darkness of the pit and they were unwilling to cross over it. Arvael knew all too well why they were so reluctant but it was a feat he would have to attempt regardless. He gathered his courage and then took the plunge, diving into the yawning pit.

The grey stone walls flashed by, the inscribed glyphs blurring as he descended. Arvael could sense immense empathic energies flowing through those arcane runes, a torrent of power no human could produce. It must be a compensation for the lost menhirs, he thought. The loss of stability would necessitate more energy to hold the matrix of this place together; sadly instability was exactly what he sought.

Arvael dived ever deeper sensing an immense pressure building, throbbing pulses of power and pain emanating from a tight knot of consciousness: the Pain-engine. It was breath-taking to witness, like standing in the rafters of some immense Manufactorum and watching the mighty machines below. The ethereal pressure was immense and Arvael dared go no further, lest he be destroyed.

Arvael gazed upon the vast knot of energies, trying to understand what he saw. The flows of thought and energy were intertwined in ways he couldn't comprehend, merged and woven together so that he couldn't tell what was psychic machinery and was living thoughts. He couldn't even tell if he was looking at one mind or many conjoined, but then perhaps it no longer mattered. What he beheld was a fusion of device and mind into a greater whole, the last remnant of the Old Ones.

Arvael studied the heart of the pain-engine and came to a realisation. He had been baffled as to why the Old Ones had not reacted to the Daemonic incursion yet but these minds were vast and eternal, thinking on a galactic scale and back into the eternity of Deep Time. A single thought could take longer than a human lifetime to complete and the incursion had barely pricked their awareness yet. The scale of it was immense beyond his comprehension and its potency stole his breath away. Arvael could tell the pain-engine was straining, labouring to hold the empathic matrix together. The loss of the Menhirs would surely provoke a reaction but there was no way to tell how long the Old Ones would take to respond. Unfortunately Arvael's needs were more immediate than that and he would have to hurry them up.

Arvael drew upon raw Warp energy and formed a telepathic spear, a shining lance of purest thought. It was barely more than a stinger compared to the mind before him but he only had to get their attention. With an impulse Arvael launched his spear to penetrate the mind below. Arvael watched as the mind recoiled, shocked by the unexpected sting. A morsel of attention turned his way, like an eye rolling over to study an insect, buzzing nearby. Then a vast surge of power arose, engulfing him in raw energy. Arvael struggled for a moment, thinking he was about to be destroyed, but the energies shaped themselves around him, becoming a cage.

Arvael struggled not to beat frantically against the bars of his cage, letting the Old Ones hold him still as they examined him. Suddenly a psychic probe lanced into his mind, tearing his mental defences like tissue paper. Arvael screamed as the probed ripped through his psyche, not hostile or malevolent, merely built to a scale beyond his tolerances, beyond human comprehension. The Librarian was helpless to resist as his thoughts and memories were picked apart, turned over and examined with no more effort than a child pulling the legs off an insect. Feedback throbbed through him, filling him with impressions of the Old One's psyche. He felt everything as the Old One's coolly dissected his existence, studying his life and knowledge with clinical disdain.

Thoughts of his childhood and belief system were dismissed out of hand, of no interest to them. Memories of his training and gene-forging drew a modicum of curiosity, the Old One's examining his enhanced frame and mental architecture as one craftsman would another's handiwork. A flash of interest passed by but then moved on, like a skilled artisan feeling the work was functional but flawed and hastily done. Not a bad attempt but not in any way a viable species. Clearly the original craftsman had been content with a job half-complete.

Then the Old Ones found what they sought, Arvael's memories of the wider galaxy and he screamed as his knowledge was devoured. The Old Ones drank in his understanding, taking everything he knew and assimilating it. His mind ached as mental feedback thundered through him, the Old One's deliberations resonating in his very soul.

They started with what they were familiar with and Arvael felt a sensation he could only articulate as disappointment. Most of their projects were extinct, this had been predicted, but the Orks had rampaged beyond any measure of control and become a blight upon the galaxy. The Eldar had also survived the War in Heaven, a most surprising turn of events, but they had failed to achieve their potential. They had fallen to their own inherent flaws and now stood upon the edge of extinction. A pity but then they had never been intended to last.

The dawn of Homo sapiens was passed over with bland disinterest, what Arvael knew of proto-history, the colonisation of the galaxy and the rise of the Imperium being of no real consequence. Humanity was a small and faltering thing, barely a blip on galactic history, its passing would leave no lasting impression.

Arvael gasped as his memories of the state of the galaxy were played out like a pict-reel. The Horus Heresy and the pantheon of the Dark Gods, which to the Old Ones was merely the latest iteration of an eternal cycle of destruction. As if that wasn't enough he saw the return of the Undying enemy and the arrival of the Great Devourer from the emptiness between galaxies. The galaxy was on the brink of annihilation, nothing could stop it.

Arvael felt the probe withdraw but could still sense the Old One's thoughts, cold, passionless and vast. The plan had failed, the galaxy had not been cleansed as predicted, instead the threats had grown worse. The attempt to ride out the devastation had been inherently flawed, there would be no going back, no return to how things had been.

From a human Arvael would have expected anger, a terrible rage and defiant cries of denial but the Old Ones were in no way human. There was no shaking of the fists, no screaming at an uncaring universe. The Old One's thoughts were distant, uncaring and remote, their decisions based on factors a human could never understand. The ancient kin had been right, Arvael sensed them conclude, the time of the Old Ones had passed. Attempts to rebuild were futile, there was no point in even trying. This galaxy was lost and it was far too late to flee. Unto all things there was a season, the Old Ones understood that better than any. The time had come to let go, the time had come to die.

Arvael felt his cage dissolve as a decision was made, the Old Ones releasing their efforts and their grip on life, letting their essence begin its slow dissolution. Arvael felt the great pain-engine slowing down, its mechanisms shutting off as the living minds disengaged from the arcane devices. The flow of empathic energy slowed then stopped entirely, severing the matrix from its source. Cutting off the very power the Menhirs needed to sustain this land.

Arvael felt utterly weary, ragged and bruised to the core. He began his long ascent back to the surface but then paused. He looked back down at the pit where darkness was growing as the Old Ones let their essence dissipate into death. With his last morsel of strength Arvael sent them a thought, a human concept that the Old Ones would never have conceived of on their own. One word that encapsulated human nature: Revenge.

The Old Ones paused, examining the notion. It was short and brutal and passionate, and yet somehow utterly appropriate. Yes, there was anger that had to be expressed before the end. The universe should shake at the passing of giants.

A terrible thunder arose in the depths of the pit and a light, harsh, terrifying and potent beyond measure was born. Arvael fled before it, racing back to the ship and the welcome safety of his bones. He opened his eyes and saw the bridge exactly as he had left it. Wrethan saw his open eyes and cried, "At last, its been minutes!"

"Cast off," Arvael called, "Cast off now!"

The Thunderchild rocked as it broke away from the docking tower, slipping free to sit oddly in mid-air. All around Daemons flapped and brayed but they had far greater concerns. Arvael could feel it, the empathic matrix was collapsing and without that structure this whole land was breaking apart. Its dissolution had already begun. Thunder rolled and black lighting fell everywhere, casting a strange strobing effect. Vast cracks began to run across the earth and sky, splitting wide open to reveal the shimmering madness of the Warp beyond. Enormous tentacles thrust through those gaps, reaching out to consume everything they found. These were the mightiest and hungriest of Daemons, sending their lesser kin fleeing in terror.

Then from off the port bow Arvael saw it, a shimmering portal that billowed like a black sail, the tiny doorway through which Chaos had entered. Without the matrix to hold it back the portal was expanding, from a tiny doorway it was reaching up until it stretched from ground to sky. It was spilling out in all directions, becoming big enough to swallow an army or a city or a starship.

From the Enginarium Bylan called, "+The Navigator... he can see it, he can see the Astronomicon. The Astronomicon is back!+

"That's our signal," Arvael called, "Go now!"

Wrethan didn't hesitate to shout, "Point us at that portal, raise the Gellar field and power the main drives. Close the Oculus, then give me all head full, we are leaving!"

Inexorably the Thunderchild slid forward, blazing a path straight towards the rippling portal. Daemons scattered out of the ship's path as the Gellar field sprang into being, a tiny bubble of sanity in an ocean of madness. Slowly the ship closed and then at last the great prow sank into the blackness of the portal, disappearing into the Warp proper.

Arvael felt the last convulsions of the land from afar and amid that a terrible sensation of wrathful power. Erupting from the pit was a fountainhead of raw might, vengeful, angry and powerful. The Old Ones were rising one last time and their fury was akin to an exploding volcano. Arvael had time for one last glimpse and he knew that any left behind would be subject to their terrible ire.

Then the Thunderchild dove into the Warp, leaving this land to the contest of warring gods.


	29. Chapter 29

**Locum Ignotum Chapter 29**

Jubila ran for all he was worth, climbing ramp after ramp, level after level. He pushed his transhuman frame to the limit desperate for more speed. In his wake his horde of Traitors and Daemons followed, tagging along in dumb confusion. Jubila gave them no heed, they were of no consequence.

None of them had heard Ganaar's last words, none of them understood the scale of the threat hanging over them. Jubila did however, for he knew how loyalists thought. They were prideful and stubborn, as all Astartes should be. They would fight to the last Marine, unless they had some devious scheme brewing. Jubila didn't know what the lickspittles had in mind but doubtless it would be bad, they would be determined to ruin everything, he had to stop them.

Jubila pressed on until his enhanced body ached and his breath came in short gasps as his armour flooded his bloodstream with combat stims. There wasn't much further to go and he pressed on, he had to get there in time. Suddenly Jubila pulled up short as he reached the apex of the tower, emerging to face a large round opening. He screeched to a halt and his horde jostled up behind him, staring at the sight greeted that them.

Before them a solid wall of Adamantium and Plasteel was receding, moving away at a stately pace. It was the hull of a starship, already hundreds of meters away and drifting further with every second. It was miles long and almost as high, a solid mass of metal floating serenely in mid-air. Jubila could see a slice of sky above, filled with flapping Daemons. The ship's anti-air defence turrets were firing constantly, creating a deafening thunder as they swatted down those flitting horrors. Jubila saw that the defence was stretched thin, a concentrated rush in one place might break through. He raised his voice over the thunder and cried, "Forward my pretties…"

But before anyone could react there was a flash of black lightning and the ground shook beneath their feet. Jubila was thrown to one side and struggled to stay upright as the docking tower lurched beneath him, bucking like a wild colt. The ground far below shook and quivered, vast cracks appearing in the earth, revealing the frothing insanity of the Warp beyond.

Jubila staggered and cried, "What's happening?"

"The foundations of this land are collapsing," Rebis snarled in masculine tones then shrieked in a feminine screech, "We warned you there would be consequences!"

Jubila looked up and gasped as he saw the vast cracks running across the sky, the contoured roof of this world splitting asunder. Black lightning fell like rain, incinerating all it touched and turning frantically fleeing Daemons into plummeting fireballs. Then through the cracks emerged a forest of tentacles, long ribbons of flesh reaching into this land from the depths of the Warp.

Neverborn, Jubila realised, but not just any lowly Daemons. These were the kings of their kind, second only to the Chaos Gods themselves in power and in hunger. He saw all four of the pantheon represented here, some tentacles diseased and mottled, others covered in eyes and snapping beaks. Some appendages curled and probed enticingly while others bulged with muscle, dripping blood all the while.

The lesser Neverborn shrieked in terror and fled before their betters, trying to reach the Warp, but not one made it. The Greater Daemons scooped them up and consumed them, devouring their essences like sharks snapping up minnows. The tentacles were everywhere, filling the sky and taking all for themselves. Jubila was aghast at the sight, all his desires had been thwarted. His dreams of a floating palace were crumbling before his eyes and everything had been ruined. This was the lickspittle's fault, he cursed. They had broken his new toy, smashed it somehow before he even got to play with it.

As if summoned by the thought there was a deafening roar and the immense length of the ship jerked forward. Jubila saw its length slide by, bulkheads and armoured plates flashing past his eyes. The ship surged away and Jubila felt the plasma backwash of its main drives roll over him. It was like standing before a flamer, the heat scorching his skin and stripping his armour bare. Jubila fumed as the ship raced away, headed right towards the very largest of the cracks. Then he screamed in denial as he saw the glimmering protection of a Gellar field burst into being, sheltering the ship from the ravaging Daemons. Even as he watched the ship dove into the rippling hues of the Warp, sinking bow first into the Immaterium and escaping far beyond his reach.

Jubila raged as he saw the architects of his downfall fly from his grasp and cursed the fates that had brought him low but his ruination had only just begun. Besides the swaying docking tower there was an immense pit, one Jubila had paid scant attention to before. Yet now the pit was filling with a harsh red light and a terrible roar arose. Even as he watched something ancient and powerful and vengeful arose. Jubila's jaw dropped as a burning red fireball shot into the sky, blazing with etheric energies like a dying star. It was swirling with potency, light and dark spots moving over it like sunspots while plumes of fire shot out randomly in every direction.

The heat of it burned his face, the brilliance seared his eyes and Jubila's Chaos tainted senses screamed that here was a power anathema to the Dark Gods. There was something in the heart of it, a small shape squatting in the centre and he struggled to make it out. Was it one shape or many, he couldn't tell, but it looked vaguely toad-like and radiated power in a burning corona.

"What is that?!" Jubila yelled.

"Power!" Rebis screamed in a masculine voice then shrieked, "Power and vengeance!"

Jubila could do nothing but stare as the star contracted; growing more concentrated second by second. It was like watching the tide rush out as a tidal wave approached. Looming dread and the knowledge that it was too late to flee rushing over him. The star contracted to a pinprick and then it exploded outwards, spilling raw energy in all directions. There was more than physical power in it, there was a message to the universe: giants yet walked the stars and they would shake the foundations of the earth before they passed.

Jubila slammed back into the nearest wall and his flesh was scalded even through his amour. The whole tower swayed dangerously over as the wave of power swept the land and any lesser Daemon it touched was annihilated. Jubila was shocked, he had thought that nothing short of the Gods of Chaos could unleash such potent devastation. This was beyond anything he had ever witnessed before.

Even the greater Daemons shrank back from that power, their tentacles scorched and burned by the roaring fires. They withdrew in searing agony but not for long. They gathered their strength and came back in a blizzard of lashing whips and tentacles, trying to crush the hateful star entirely. Spiked appendages threw themselves into the fire while purple coils whipped back and forth. Feathered limbs spat bolts of lighting while blistered protuberances vomited gore at it. The star responded by spilling out flares of energy, long plumes of fire that resembled coronal mass ejections in scope and fury. Tentacles were burnt to ash, severed and destroyed in the conflict and yet still they came.

Jubila had no time to watch however, concentrating solely on riding the swaying docking tower. In all directions the land was breaking apart, splitting into free-floating chunks of rock. Ravaged towns and farms disappeared as the ground shattered, rendered into nothing but boulders. The chunks of earth floated away on a wave of raw Warp energy, tiny little islands of rock flying above his head.

Jubila felt the tremors of the docking tower crumbling beneath him and gathered himself to jump clear. He leapt from the toppling tower and fell with his arms spinning to smash down upon a moving piece of rock. He held on with both hands as the rock spun and bobbed in the clash of energies, the mighty warlord reduced to just another piece of flotsam in a raging storm.

Above he saw his minions trying to replicate his feat but the inferno took them. Most of them fell short or their targets moved and they fell into the raw Warp, drowning in Immaterial energies as lesser Daemons came for their souls. Jubila saw Baeghost and Salmacis disappear into the seething Warp, taken from before his eyes. Yet a few had even worse fates, the writhing tentacles snatching warriors from mid-air, and stuffing them down gaping maws, the Daemons not bothering to tell friend from foe.

Of them all only Rebis actually made it to another rock but he was struck by a burst of lightning from a feathered tentacle. There was a flash of light and Jubila saw that where there had been one now there was two: one male, one female. The man said, "Sister?" and the woman said, "Brother?" But then the rock they were stood upon spun away, taking them beyond Jubila's sight.

Jubila was left clinging to his rock as it danced across the sky, thrown about amid an insane tornado of fire and wind and lashing Daemon limbs. He felt the fire growing more intense across his back, building up to a crescendo of power that nothing could withstand. He screamed in denial but he was but a feather in the breeze, unable to do anything save cling on for dear life and wait for his fate to come.

Then he saw it.

Amid the destruction and rage was a dancing shadow, a small whisper of a thing in comparison to the mighty lords clashing above. It was far more humanoid than the rest of the Daemons but with dark wings and too many arms. A mere prince in a realm of kings. The Daemon Prince dodged and swerved around the seething insanity, avoiding every lashing tentacle and errant blasts of power. It soared and dove, tucked and rolled in an elegant dance and somehow it managed to dodge everything as it closed upon Jubila. It was graceful and swift and it was laughing all the while.

Jubila gasped at the sight, even amid the raging inferno he recognised this one. He desperately looked for an escape but there was nowhere to go. Jubila was caught between the building power of the star and the towering rage of the Greater Daemons, there was no way he could run now.

Jubila looked up and screamed, "No, keep him away! Not Ozymandias!"

The Daemon Prince laughed aloud and dove upon him, snatching the warlord up in his many arms and carrying him away. Jubila fought and kicked and bit but was as a helpless babe compared to his former prisoner. Ozymandias cackled in revenge as he carried his tormentor away, swooping back towards the shimmering cracks. Then together they dove into the raw warp, leaving the battle behind.

The land had been utterly ravaged so there were none left to witness the final drama play out. The Old One's power had mounted to a critical mass of energy, their star blazing incandescently as it built and built and built. The Greater Daemons threw everything they had into one last barrage but they could not stop the inevitable. The whole scene froze for an instant and then the Old One's star detonated, destroying themselves and everything else in a brilliant supernova.

The Daemons screamed as they burned in that supernova, their immaterial flesh roasting and broiling. They were immortal, the very greatest of Greater Daemons, they could not die but they certainly wished that they could. The fire seared into their essence, scarring them eternally, branding them for the rest of their existence. They would bear these wounds until the universe died.

While the Daemons writhed in agony the land disintegrated under the onslaught, broken into billions of shards. The etheric walls fell and dropped the debris into the raw Warp, leaving nothing behind at all. It was as if the Old One's refuge had never existed, reduced to nought but a memory. Thus by their own hands their legacy was ended, their creation wiped from existence by its makers.

And so the universe marked the passing of the Old Ones.


	30. Chapter 30

**Locum Ignotum Chapter30**

The Warp heaved with great swells, vast waves sweeping its haunted depths and remaking it. Huge surges of and dips rolled across the Immaterium, rewriting everything and creating new patterns. This was a time of great changes, a remaking of all that had been. The galaxy was in a state of flux and the Empyrean was no exception, patterns were being rewritten and new configurations were rising.

Even the Astronomicon, the Emperor's great psychic beacon, was not the same. It was a shadow of its former self, flickering and intermittent, a waning light in the growing darkness. Still it was more than had been present before and even a guttering light was a welcome reprieve in the midst of such nightmares.

Thus the Thunderchild gingerly picked its way forward, seeking the path home. It was a tiny little mote of life in the roiling mass of unlife but it remained unbroken. The same could not be said for the Old One's refuge, the last shards of its debris spinning away, dissolving into nothingness. The Thunderchild had barely made it out in time and had been rocked by the psychic shockwave of its destruction. The ship had been flung across the Immaterium before the shockwave passed, leaving it battered but hale.

Deep within that ship the leaders of the Space Marines were meeting, gathered to debrief and reflect upon all that had happened. They were in a strategic briefing room, the same one that had hosted the Company's Sergeants before the battles had begun. The debriefing was being held by Captain Toran, who had recovered from his poisoning with no permanent side-effects as well as his Command Squad, Novak, Persion, Jediah, and Furion.

There was also Chaplain Wrethan, his skull-mask off and hanging from his belt and with him Honourable Ajax, whose bulk made the room seem rather small. Librarian Arvael was also present, his gaze far off as he contemplated upon mysteries only he could know. The last member was Bylan, standing proud, head held high to be among such heroes.

He was glad to see the Captain had recovered; he had been very worried for a time. The thought that the Captain might not make it had been more troubling than he was willing to admit. Bylan knew that Chaplain Wrethan had stepped up magnificently and led them to safety but it had felt wrong, he found it hard to imagine going to war without Toran at the fore.

Bylan shook off his musings and heard Toran saying, "So in short, we made it out."

"Barely," Wrethan stated, "It was closer than I care to admit."

Persion spoke up to say, "I can't believe we missed it, we slept through it all."

Novak quipped, "Perhaps it was for the best, an old man like you needs his rest."

"You were passed out too," Persion poked back.

Bylan had a pressing question and asked, "+So now we have time, did we ever deduce what that place was?+"

"A refuge," Arvael stated, "A hiding place, but one that ultimately failed."

"+A hiding place for what?+" Bylan pressed.

Arvael's eyes glimmered strangely and he said, "You don't want to know."

"+But…+" Bylan said.

Arvael cut him off saying, "Certain things are not meant to be known. That place is gone for good; you should be content with that answer and not inquire further. Be grateful, in this case ignorance is bliss."

Wrethan put his foot down by saying, "Let the Librarian be, his role is to know these things, ours is to fight the Divine Emperor's wars. Truly it is written: to question is to doubt and doubt is the path to Heresy."

Bylan shrank back in the face of the Chaplain's ire and he chided himself for inquiring into that which was forbidden. He had let his growing familiarity with the Librarian obscure the fact that Arvael routinely dealt with prohibited matters, with the secrets of the Warp. The Chapter taught that when it came to Psykers, it was best not to inquire too deeply or not at all.

Thankfully Furion changed the subject to ask, "So have we established contact with the Imperium yet?"

Arvael replied, "Our Astropaths are hard pressed, the Warp seethes with violence but stray messages are being picked up."

Bylan saw the grimness of his expression and inquired, "+Not good news?+"

Arvael shook his head and said, "I have cross-checked the embedded time stamp, according to that we have been absent from the galaxy for four and a half years."

That drew gasps and Jediah spat, "But we were only in there a couple of months, little over sixty days. That's a time differential of… of…"

"Twenty-five to one," Novak stated frankly.

Bylan eyed him, that was unusually sharp for Novak but then he remembered that despite the flippant attitude the Champion was far from stupid. He did a quick sum himself and said, "+That means our late allies were trapped in that strange place for roughly four hundred years, from their point of view+"

"Still a long time," Persion said, "I don't think I could have coped."

"It could have been much worse," Wrethan declared, "We have all seen bad translation slips before, this is not extreme, as far as Warp travel is concerned."

"That depends on what we missed," Toran stated, "Arvael, what have we heard?"

The Librarian's face fell and he said, "Its bad… very bad."

"Do not seek to spare us," Wrethan said, "We shall face whatever comes with stern resolution."

Arvael swallowed and explained, "Terra itself has gone silent, save for the Astronomicon there is nothing. Other reports are scattered but they tell a grim tale. While we were gone the Thirteenth Black Crusade fell upon Cadia and brought ruin with it, the Despoiler unleashed weapons beyond compare. The planet is gone, the Cadian Gate has fallen."

Dumbfound silence greeted that as jaws dropped and Bylan couldn't believe his ears. The Cadian Gate had been the Imperium's bastion, an enduring, unbreakable fortress that had held against everything the Traitor Legions could throw at it. For ten millennia Cadia had held the line, the idea of it being gone was inconceivable.

Bylan gasped in disbelief, "+It must be a mistake, the messages are scrambled, Astropathy is notoriously unreliable. They must mean the Imperial Guard fell, that they were routed and fled. The Imperium can still counterattack and retake the planet+"

Arvael shook his head sadly and said, "The reports are too consistent and complimentary, there can be no doubt: Cadia is nothing but asteroid debris now."

"We should have been there," Jediah spat angrily, "Those weak mortals shamed themselves, they cost us everything with their cowardice."

A flash of fire lit Arvael's eye and he said, "The reports are clear, the Guard stood and fought to the last man. They never gave up, not even when the end came for them. They fought tooth and nail as the planet broke up, even as fire fell from on high and the earth shattered they still continued to fight. They never ran out of courage, merely time. The last message to get off-world is being repeated galaxy-wide to honour them. They are saying, 'Let it be known: the planet broke before the Guard did.'"

A solemn silence fell and heads bowed in respect to those fallen heroes, all honouring the bravery and sacrifice shown by mere men in the face of ultimate evil. Bylan was struck by the similarity to their own situation, had they not had a way out then they too would have chosen to fight to the end. They would have fought to the last as a world burned around them.

After a moment Furion spoke up to say, "The question now becomes, what do we do next?"

Arvael stated, "The Imperium is beset on all sides, Chaos incursions beyond any we've seen before and Xeno foes rise on all sides. The topography of the Warp is completely changed, nothing is it was… well almost nothing. There is one spark of good news, the Navigator reports that the Saint Karyl Trail still exists, the way back to our homeworld is passable."

"That at least is good news," Toran said, "We must regroup with the Chapter and determine where we can make a difference. Our honoured dead must also be mourned; our lost squadmates deserve proper commemoration."

Furion rubbed his chin thoughtfully and said, "We have been absent a long time there is no telling what may have changed in the meantime. We may find things are quite different once we get home."

There was a sudden grumble from Ajax who declared, "IT DOES NOT MATTER, WE MUST RETURN HOME. THE CHAPTER NEEDS US AND WE MUST STAND WITH OUR BROTHERS. I HOWEVER HAVE BEEN AWAKE TOO LONG; I YEARN FOR THE PEACE OF MY STASIS CRYPT."

Bylan looked up and said, "+You will not remain with us?+"

"I WILL ALWAYS BE THERE WHEN NEEDED MOST," Ajax stated, "BUT I MUST REST, IT IS THE CLOSEST THING TO DEATH I CAN PERMIT MYSELF."

Everybody blinked at that odd statement but Wrethan said, "There is still the matter of fifty-thousand refugees to deal with."

Bylan stated, "+Yes, they are draining our life-support systems at an alarming rate. The Machine Spirits are greatly taxed, with fair winds we should make it home but it will be a close run thing+"

Furion ventured, "Maybe we should drop them off at an Imperial way-station."

"What, leave them to rot while Administratum functionaries dither," Wrethan growled, "Or the Inquisition tortures them for hints of Heresy? I think not."

Toran nodded and said, "The Imperium would not understand what we have seen, where these people came from. Best to keep them close; there are hundreds of sparsely inhabited islands on Lujan II, Chapter Master Gorgall can surely find them a nice archipelago to settle when we get home. They can live out their lives under our protection, in time some of their descendants may even join the Chapter."

Wrethan nodded and said, "It is what Baruch would have wanted."

Bylan felt a wave of sadness to think upon those lost warriors, so far from home. Yet they had fought and died for noble causes, their actions in life and death had taught them all so much. He wished he could have seen how they fell but surely it must have been the most gallant of ends. He said, "+We should send word to their homeworlds, they may have records of their names.+"

Persion remarked, "Baal, Prometheus and Fenris perhaps but we never did find out where Maxivus and Leanyr came from."

Toran said, "We shall send missives to all the First Founding Chapters, somebody may have a record of them."

Suddenly Ajax rumbled, "THEY CARED NOT FOR LAURELS OR PRAISE. SIMPLY TO BE REMEMBERED, THAT IS ALL THEY WANTED. TO KNOW THAT THEIR WISDOM HAD BEEN IMPARTED AND SHALL ENDURE."

Wrethan said, "Yes, they said to raise a glass and remember them. Our own lost will be ritually memorialised in due time but let us mourn our allies now. Summon a servitor, we shall toast their memories."

A call went out and after a few minutes a servitor arrived, carrying a tray of goblets. Everybody took one, save Ajax who couldn't hold one and they held the wine quietly with heads bowed.

"To Baruch, Samandriel, Maxivus, Leanyr and Ganaar," Wrethan said, " They reminded me of the meaning of duty, of our true purpose."

Jediah nodded and said, "They showed me how to live with myself, how to balance being a man and a monster."

Bylan declared, "+They taught me to be my own man, to not be afraid of stepping forward+"

Arvael said, "They showed me that even in the darkest of places there is yet light and that there is more at work in the universe than the will of Chaos."

Last of all Ajax whispered softly, "They reminded me of what I am fighting for and why I must continue."

Bylan blinked, Ajax's vox speaker was fritzing again, he kept slipping into soft tones. It was a good job they were headed home, Bylan thought, they all needed respite. Toran raised his glass and said, "To our comrades in arms then, heroes all. No matter what comes we shall remember them."

Then they drained their goblets, in one last toast to the fallen


	31. Chapter 31

**Locum Ignotum Chapter 31**

Stillness, that was the first thing he noticed. That wasn't right, there shouldn't be calm there should be noise and light and pain, always pain. The second thing he noticed was that he was lying upon a hard, flat surface, which also wasn't right. He wasn't sure where he should be but it definitely wasn't here. The third thing he noticed was that he was still in his armour. Armour, that sparked a memory.

Like a Cogitator slowly coming to life his mind presented data to him. His name was Jubila, Warlord of Slaanesh, Legionnary of the IIIrd Legion, Son of Fulgrim and a willing Traitor. That was a start at least. Jubila searched his memory and found images of a world breaking up, warring gods and total destruction. He had been taken, seized and swept off into the Warp itself. That explained why he had expected pain but not why he was here, wherever here was.

Jubila slowly became aware that there were voices talking over him. Two voices and they appeared to be in an argument. The first was fierce and angry, a voice he dreaded and it was saying, "This one is mine. I claimed him, you have no right!"

A second voice came back, silky, soft and alluring and yet somehow far more terrifying. Jubila quailed to hear it as it resonated in his very soul. The voice was saying, "Right? What do we care for rights? We take what we want, when we want. Nothing stands between us and perfection."

The first voice growled, "I suffered at this one's hands, bound and chained and limited. You cannot imagine the agony of being so constrained. I demand revenge!"

There was a long pause and then the second voice ventured, "Are you challenging me?"

The first voice suddenly panicked and pleaded, "No, no I would never oppose you. Take whatever you want; I wholly support your plan."

Ozymandias, the thought came to Jubila, the first voice was Ozymandias. That was bad, if Jubila was in Ozymandias' clutches his agonies would be eternal and unrelenting. Yet of the two voices Ozymandias didn't seem the more powerful, he was definitely the junior of the pair and deathly afraid of the second. That was an interesting fact.

"Good," The second voice declared, "Now Jubila, you might as well open your eyes, we know you're awake."

Jubila sighed and did as instructed; it wasn't like he had any other options. Before him he saw a grey swirl of fog, indistinct and vague, giving impressions of shapes but no concrete forms. He sat up and found the floor was similarly grey, a blank uniform surface with no features.

Jubila stood up, his armour clinking on the floor and said, "I am dead?"

"Mostly dead, but not completely," the second voice rang from the fog, "That little hidey-hole you coveted was breaking up but we snatched away at the instant of your death. You are between moments now, caught between tick and tock. Neither one thing or the other, not alive, not dead. Trapped in a position of quantum uncertainty."

Jubila pondered that, he had seen stranger things in an eternity serving Chaos. He looked about and said, "So where am I?"

"This is a place we thought would fall within your limited comprehension," The voice said, "A construct where we could keep you safe while we decided whether to let you die or send you back to the world of the living. Think of it as a holding tank or a waiting room."

"The Warp?" Jubila queried.

The voice sighed sadly, "Even after ten millennia your perceptions are so limited. There are so many dimensions, so many facets to be explored. The Aether is limitless and boundless and yet you try to box it in with a simple word."

"Enough," came the voice of Ozymandias from the fog, "He is slow and dim-witted, useless to us. Let me have him!"

The fog rolled back to reveal a giant, he was purple in colour with thick glistening muscles. Scraps of armour clung to his form, declaring allegiance to the IIIrd Legion. He had a pair of heavily muscled legs and four arms, with broad wings sprouting from his shoulders. His face was bestial and full of fangs and it was snarling at Jubila. Ozymandias, in all his glory.

Ozymandias flexed black claws and took a step forward but the voice rang out, "Amusing as that would be I have other plans. Touch him and you become an obstacle to my goals."

Ozymandias froze at the admonition and Jubila saw the fear there. He smirked and said, "So, I am here for a purpose, shall we get to it?"

The voice sounded pleased and said, "Straight to the point, that shows promise."

Ozymandias growled, "I am still against this, he is dim and slow, there are better choices."

"He was smart enough to imprison you," The voice sneered, making Jubila grin at his former master's humiliation.

The voice addressed Jubila now and said, "You stand upon the precipice of death, so perhaps you would be interested in making a deal."

"I accept!" Jubila called aloud.

There was a pause and then the voice said, "You accept? Just like that?"

"Yes," proclaimed Jubila with a grin.

The voice was silent for a moment and then hesitantly said, "People… usually like to hear what I'm offering before they accept it."

Jubila cocked his head and said, "I'm not most people."

The voice sounded uncertain as it said, "You don't want to hear what I am proposing first?"

"Nope," Jubila stated frankly.

The voice checked, "You do realise there's a hidden cost?"

Jubila nodded at Ozymandias and said, "I assume the alternative is being left in his clutches, I think your option is the better of the two."

The voice sounded wrong-footed now and said, "I am not accustomed to such immediate acceptance. Mortals usually like to try to wriggle a bit first, it makes them feel clever. Not that it makes any difference; they all serve me in the end."

"But I swore to serve you ten thousand years ago," Jubila stated, "Why would I change my mind now?"

"You know who I am?" the voice asked sounding surprised.

"Of course, how could I not recognise you," Jubila declared, "My Lord Fulgrim."

With that proclamation the fog rolled back to reveal the second voice. He was an immense, towering monster, completely eclipsing Ozymandias. The legs had been fused together into one long sinuous tail and vast wings of smoke and shadow extended out behind him. Over his heart was a glorious breastplate, enamelled and adorned with beautiful designs. Four arms sprouted out from that chest, each bearing a different weapon, a sword, a lash, a spear and sceptre, each a wondrous rendition of the craftsman's art.

Yet the face remained human, a rapturous visage, precise and aquiline. Here was a face that had seen worlds laid low and adulated in the adoration of millions. He had seen everything, done everything and yet his passion for more was undimmed. His head was covered in long, white locks, that flowed behind him and sharp horns arose from his brow, like a crown of thorns.

He was the Phoenician, the Phoenix, the Palatine Eagle, the Illuminator and the Prefector of Chemos. Fulgrim, Daemon Primarch of the IIIrd Legion.

Jubila felt his hearts soar at the sight, his gene-seed responding to the presence of his father and he fell to one knee as love and lust raced through him. Simply to be in the presence of a Primarch was overwhelming, everything about him broadcasting his superiority, not just physically but mentally and spiritually too. Fulgrim had been built to a standard beyond mortal comprehension and that was before his ascension. Now he was the ultimate embodiment of the quest for perfection, the most extreme edge of what was possible.

Fulgrim looked down at the little Legionary before him and said, "Not so dim-witted after all. You were wrong about this one Ozymandias."

The Daemon Prince grovelled before his lord and master, "My Primarch, this one is not worthy. Let me find another."

Fulgrim cut him off saying, "I have made my choice, he will serve. But let it not be said that I am not a fair and generous lord. Here, a little titbit to compensate you for your loss."

Fulgrim tossed Ozymandias a glowing jewel, shining in the greyness. Ozymandias snatched it from the air and sniffed it saying, "A soul?"

Fulgrim nodded and said, "A special one, here is the soul of one Maxivus Dane. A turncoat and betrayer, fresh in his treachery and barely tainted. Make sure his torments are as endless as they are inventive and he should keep you amused for a time."

Ozymandias bowed low, his fear of his Primarch not letting him mutter any further protests. Jubila however looked up and said, "I assume you have a plan?"

Fulgrim gazed upon his servant and said, "Yes, the time of changes is here and the rules of the great game are altered. My brothers awaken and I am not talking about we who marched under Horus' banner."

Jubila was shocked, that could only mean the loyalist Primarchs were returning. It was a thought to give anyone pause, they were mighty and potent in ways beyond comprehension. Still no match for Chaos of course, but they could upset a lot of plans.

Jubila mused upon it and said, "A challenge then, how many are awake?"

Fulgrim answered, "So far only one, that dullard Roboute. Not the best choice, I would have wagered on the Lion, but perhaps it makes a certain dull sense. No other would think to work with the Imperium, that dying, rotting carcass of a thing. The others would waste time trying to restore it to what it was, only Roboute would look at it as it is and think: what do we have here that I can work with?"

Jubila probed, "You've already tried to tempt him?"

"Of course," Fulgrim replied, "But he was obdurate and stubborn, how pedestrian of him to refuse my temptations. It seems I must get more physical in my efforts."

"Which is where I come in," Jubila said from his kneeling position.

"Yes," Fulgrim stated, "I need a proxy in the material world."

Jubila frowned and ventured, "Surely you have billions of worshippers."

Fulgrim sighed and explained, "They are wayward and wilful, prone to wandering off at the most inappropriate moments. I require someone who will follow my decrees to the letter, someone who knows what I will do if he gets ideas above his station."

Ozymandias muttered, "He's saying he wants a follower too dumb to think for himself."

Jubila lowered his head and said, "Command me lord, I am yours."

Fulgrim nodded and said, "Understand this seals a pact between us, your soul will be bound to me. Fail and there is nowhere you can hide, die and I shall bring you back over and over."

"This deal gets better all the time," Jubila said, "Is there some spell or sacrifice involved?"

"Leave that sort of thing to Lorgar", Fulgrim said, "A simple yes will suffice."

Jubila paused then and said, "First there is one little matter, I will require an army."

Fulgrim waved a giant hand saying, "I did salvage a few souls before the end."

From the mist marched a line of Chaos Marines, all lurching drunkenly as if dazed. There were no more than a few dozen and among them Jubila spied Salmacis and Baeghost. It was a small start but better than nothing. Jubila dared to say, "I had a Sorcerer too."

Fulgrim smiled broadly and said, "And you still do, but I had to make some alterations."

From the line stepped a figure, smaller and more delicate than the Astartes. A woman in flowing robes and a revealing neckline. She had a pouty face, flowing black hair and white upon white eyes that hid a cruel soul. She bowed low and smiled, displaying demure fangs under her lips.

"Rebis?" Jubila asked in confusion.

"He is here," the woman stated, "His rage and anguish are a delight in the corners of my mind, where I keep him caged."

Jubila frowned and said, "You are the sister."

"Yes," she said, "You may call me Rebre."

Fulgrim clapped his hands and said, "Accept these boons and our pact is sealed, you shall be my proxy and mouthpiece in the mortal world. Bound to my every command and whim, not even death shall keep you from my side."

"I accept my lord," said Jubila bowing low, "This shall be spectacular."

...

 _The Storm Heralds will return in Domus Discordia_


	32. Chapter 32

_Presenting a teaser for an upcoming story Domus Discordia_

 **Somewhere, Somewhen**

The apartment had seen better days; it was run down, with mould on the lintels and dirty windows. The furniture was frayed and the carpets worn by the eternal passage of feet. There was also a smell in the air, a damp stench that persisted and crept in at the corners. The air vents had been routinely scrubbed of course, everything here was repeatedly checked and monitored with the obsessiveness of the innately paranoid but the smell persisted anyway.

The apartment was located far down the side of the Hive City, permitting little to no light through its grainy windows. Centuries of pollution and acid rains had marred those windows, leaving them stained and milky. One could barely see the soaring heights of Tectum's Hive spires, Sector capital-world and greatest naval base in the Saint Karyl Trail. In fact this apartment was about as low as one could get in the Inquisitorial Fortress that was attached to the Hive's city's flanks without being a servant. But here was the important thing; it was still in the Inquisitorial Fortress.

It was in every respect a poor choice of apartment, one ill-suited for a great and mighty Inquisitor Lord but then the occupant was neither high nor mighty, not anymore. Much like the apartment the occupant had seen better days. He was an old man now, the marks of frequent Juvenant work starting to show. His frame was ample, former muscle now running to fat and his gut expanding. His head was bald and scarred and upon his robes was the mark of the Ordo Hereticus.

The man's expression was best described as forlorn for he was a sad sight. He was slumped in his chair before a wide desk and cradling a goblet, staring into its depths as if it could reveal infinity. His name was Inquisitor Zerban and he was thinking upon how he had sunk so low.

Zerban was brooding upon the tides of fate and how far he had fallen. The Inquisition had little in the way of hierarchy, save for the regional Lords of each Ordo. In such a jumbled mess authority and power were measured by reputation, the various Inquisitors jostling for position in an endless struggle for prestige.

Zerban had once been a rising star in the Ordo, marked for greatness, but as a consequence had made a great many enemies. Not a problem when he had been powerful but now those rivals were numerous and well-placed. His housing here, in the slum of the fortress was just the latest insult in a long line of affronts.

Zerban sighed and put his goblet to his lips, draining it dry. Then he slammed it down and said, "How did it come to this?"

From a corner a quiet voice said, "My Lord?"

Zerban glanced up and saw his batsman, a warrior called Dago standing there. He was a burly man, a former Guard Sergeant who had seen plenty of wars. He was the worst sort of killer, ruthless, immoral but intelligent enough to hide it behind a uniform. He had been running a criminal enterprise under the Guard's nose and getting away with it too. Sadly a simple slip had revealed his dealings to the Commissariat and his execution had only been averted via recruitment into Zerban's retinue. Doubtless he had a new gang up and running but Zerban didn't care, in fact it was occasionally useful.

Zerban was feeling melancholic and elaborated, "I was on the fast track to the seat of Lord Hereticus Karyl, I walked these halls and people averted their eyes. I could have been running the whole Sector-Ordo but then it slipped through my grasp."

Dago shrugged, he didn't care for politics but Zerban was in a mood to speak and carried on, "It was the Tyranid invasion, that's when it started to slip. Those damned Astartes; those Storm Heralds made me look like a fool. Then slight after slight, failure after failure. None of my investigations went anywhere, my hunches stopped paying off. Inquisitors who once feared my name now look down their noses at me."

Dago looked indifferent and mentioned, "Your guest is still waiting."

That sobered Zerban up; he did indeed have a meeting due, a strange one indeed. He had known the visitor was coming, how could he not, but had chosen to keep him waiting outside for hours. It was a petty and snide trick, one he had used before, but for this particular guest there was no tower in all of Tectum high enough from which to spit his contempt.

Zerban sighed and he reached into a drawer to pull out a stim-tab, he wanted a clear head for this. He pressed the stim to his wrist and felt a rush of clarity then said, "Show him in."

Dago went to fetch the guest and Zerban leaned back, waiting patiently. Soon enough Dago returned bringing his guest. It was a strange sight indeed, for he was an Astartes, one in white armour with various accoutrements. He walked at a measured pace, making the floorboards creak with his weight but his disdain was clear to any with eyes. He was Lessall, Chief Apothecary to the Storm Heralds, and Zerban's most hated opponent.

Zerban looked over the Astartes and wondered why he was here, of all the places to be in this dark time, why come here? As Lessall approached Zerban saw a small light blinking on a ring on his left hand, a signal that Lessall was recording everything via his armour.

The Inquisitor considered overriding it with another ring on his other hand, he had access to tech that made Lessall's gear look like toys, but decided against it. The Apothecary was already an enemy and there were ways to turn such recordings against him, if he thought to entrap Zerban he had badly underestimated the Inquisitor.

Zerban waved Lessall to sit in a reinforced chair, not out of welcome but because he didn't want the Astartes looming over him. He waited for a moment then enquired politely, "So, how was your trip?"

Lessall scowled but played the game saying, "Rough, since Cadia fell the Warp seethes."

Zerban nodded for it was true; the last four years had seen storms unlike any before and interstellar travel had become next to impossible. It was only in the last few months that the storms had cleared enough to let a handful of ships and messages pass. The Apothecary must be desperate indeed to have travelled the mere dozen light-years between Tectum and his homeworld.

Zerban poked the bear by saying, "Yes, a shame about that. Did you lose a lot of Space Marines to the Warp storms?"

Lessall nose wrinkled and he sneered, "You remain a snake, nothing has changed in that regard."

Zerban felt the same for his foe and stated for the benefit of the recording, "You won't let it go will you, it's been a century since you served in the Deathwatch, since the incident at Sacellum. You were as much to blame for what happened as I was."

Lessall growled, "Enough banter, I am here with a purpose."

Zerban mused, "I was wondering when you would get to that."

Lessall leaned in and said, "The galaxy is turned upside down, great changes are afoot and confusion reigns."

Zerban couldn't deny that and said, "Yes, especially with the news from Terra, who would have dared to imagine such wonders."

Lessall's face was a picture of blank incomprehension and ignorance as he said, "What?"

Zerban started in surprise, was it possible the Storm Heralds didn't know? He supposed it must be, Astropaths had been notoriously unreliable before the Noctis Aeterna now they were working intermittently at best. Whole regions of the Imperium had fallen silent and few if any worlds still responded to messages, it might take centuries for normal contact to be re-established. So maybe the Storm Heralds really didn't know that Roboute Guillliman, the Primarch of Ultramar, was awake and on Terra.

"It's nothing," Zerban demurred, "So why come to me?"

Lessall growled, "There are opportunities here for you and for me. A chance to resolve our conflict, once and for all."

Zerban scoffed, "Why should I care?"

"Because you want to destroy us," Lessall said, "And I want to destroy you. This fight has been brewing for an age but has been held back by blinkered fools."

Ah, Zerban thought, this is about Chapter Master Gorgall. The Storm Herald's leader was annoyingly moderate, working tirelessly to restore good relations between his Chapter and the wider Imperium. It had frustrated Zerban no end, especially as he had long wanted to see that sanctimonious Chapter ground down into dust. Lessall also had reason to hate Gorgall, for he coveted his Master's seat. Lessall couldn't stand the Lex Imperalis or the rule of Terra. He wanted to lead an uprising and carve out his own personal empire, one with the Astartes at the head, but Gorgall was standing right in his way.

Zerban leaned back and said, "So things aren't going too well at home?"

Lessall scowled and said, "Gorgall holds us back, keeps us from seeing the true path. He is a fool and a coward but worse of all, he just won't die."

Zerban nodded and stated loudly, for the recording, "So, you're asking me to kill your own Chapter Master?"

Lessall snorted and said, "Don't pretend you haven't thought about it."

Zerban spread his hands and said for the benefit of the recording, "This is Heresy; I am loyal to the Throne and its appointed servants. You propose treason and rebellion against the rule of Terra."

Lessall leaned in and said, "You have the means and tools I lack, we've already sent a killer against his followers and failed. His guard is up now, I can't kill Gorgall myself but if an outsider did it..."

Zerban thumbed his ring, jamming Lessall's recording and said, "Interesting, but why would I aid you?"

Lessall grinned and said, "Because you have always wanted a war between us. With Gorgall dead there will be no more complications, no more obstacles. It will be just you and me: Inquisition versus Astartes."

Zerban snorted, "A war you expect to win, no doubt."

"As do you," Lessall said, "In which case your position will rise greatly."

Zerban made a pretence of thinking about it and said, "It has a certain direct appeal, no more intrigues just a stand-up fight, winner takes all."

Lessall eagerly chased the lead saying, "So you agree, Gorgall must die."

Zerban said, "A chance to destroy you at last, how could I resist?"

Lessall smiled and said, "Good, I look forward to setting your head upon a spike."

Zerban smirked and countered, "I look forward to seeing you ground into dust beneath my heel."

Lessall stood and walked out, slamming the door behind him. Dago watched him go and said, "Why didn't you tell him about the Primarch's return?"

Zerban shrugged and stated, "If he can't find out on his own then I'm not going to do it for him. Besides this is an opportunity. The new Lord Commander Guilliman is busy at the heart of the galaxy so the time is ripe to move openly. Lessall wants a war and I will give it to him. A war that will show the Imperium how dangerous Astartes are and force Terra to finally put a leash on them all."

Dago looked unconvinced and said, "Lessall seemed confident that he would win."

Zerban snorted, "They always do, right up till the end. But if the Storm Heralds rise in rebellion then the Inquisition shall see I was right all along. I will lead vast armies to crush that pernicious Chapter entirely. And if I don't succeed in obliterating these rebellious upstarts then the new Lord Commander will do it for me, it's a win-win scenario."

Dago muttered, "A Chapter Master never goes undefended."

Zerban gazed at the window saying, "I still have a few favours left, a few indiscretions to use as leverage. Send a priority Astropathic message; the Grand Master of the Officio Assassinorum has more than one secret he doesn't want me to reveal."

"An Imperial Assassin," Dago gulped, "Isn't that overkill?"

Zerban shook his head and said, "Not in this case, I need Gorgall's death to be certain, then Lessall will start his war and we can finally move openly. By the time Terra notices this petty back-water all they will see is a rebellious and heretical Chapter. Either dead already or needing to be crushed. Make no mistake, soon the Storm Heralds shall fall and my star shall be in the ascendant once more."


End file.
